If you’ve ever wondered where mangos come from you’ve obviously never
been in my backyard. Mangos grow on a freakishly large tree there every year
during the months of May and June. Mangos may also grow on other trees in other
locations but this is both irrelevant and redundant. During the peak of its
harvest, my mango tree is capable of feeding every squirrel, bird, possum and
human in the known mango-eating civilized world with plenty left over to help
sustain exploratory space missions to other planets.
My wife and I try
sharing the wealth during mango season, but the average person’s fascination
with mangos is a fleeting thing, quickly captured in a couple of nibbles, a
raised eyebrow, and a remark along the lines of “my, that’s refreshing, do you
have any pineapple?”
Some of our friends make
the mistake of feigning a fondness for mangos, just to be nice. This is a cue
for my wife to gather enough mangos to choke a horde of wild boar, package them
in back-breakingly heavy bags and personally deliver them to their home or
office. If the friends or family members are out of state, she will ship them
the mangos in big stinking boxes with a cheerfully ominous note inside that
says “Eat up. There’s more where these came from.” While they eat the fruit, we
eat the $40 in postage.
Choosing, cutting and
eating a mango is an art onto itself. One doesn’t just snatch one off a low
branch, take a big lusty bite, wipe their mouth on their hairy forearm and
bellow “Who dares challenge the Mango King!?” Of course, you would do exactly that if you were appearing in a
community theater production of a little-known play entitled “Mango of La
Mancha.”
Otherwise, there are tried-and-true steps handed down through the ages
that have proven fruitful in taking the guesswork out of mango selection and
enjoyment.
1.) When choosing a mango, pick one that is
plump and fragrant, not unlike Bette Midler. When held near your nose, the
mango should smell like a cross between a peach and an airport shuttle bus. If
you plan on using the mango right away, you will want to find a ripe one.
Mangoes are ripe when easily indented with your thumb. Avoid mangoes that are
so ripe that they feel mushy like a Michael Bublé ballad.
2.) Just to be different from oranges and grapefruits,
mangoes have large, flat stones in the middle. When you slice one, you’ll want
to make your initial cut slightly off center, away from the stone. Next, you’ll
make a slice on the other side of the mango, leaving you with three pieces –
two fleshy, plus the stone. For a fun game, blindfold yourself, rotate the
three pieces, then grab one and shove it in your mouth. If you picked the one
with the stone, spit it across the room and bellow “Who dares challenge the
Mango King!?” (Again, having a role in a mango-themed theatrical production at
the time of bellowing is critical to your credibility. I can’t stress this
enough.)
3.) If, for some unknown reason, you’ve
decided not to spit the mango stone across the room, you can hold it up to your
mouth like a lollipop and eat the sweet flesh directly off it. In some social
circles this is almost certain to get you labeled a vulgar pig, but as the good
book cautions, “let he who is without sin cast the first mango stone.”
4.) To finish the mango emancipation, take
one of the fleshy sections and score it with a serrated knife, cutting through
the peel but not your hand. Next, score the flesh in the opposite direction to
create small cubes of fruit. Now, spoon out the cubed flesh with a tablespoon
and you’re ready to nibble, raise your eyebrow and say “my, that’s refreshing,
do you have any pineapple?”
My favorite part of mango
season is using “the picker” to pluck high hanging fruit from the upper
branches of the tree. The picker is an eight foot long pole with a molded
plastic basket on the end that allows normal sized people to pull down mangos
like a fruit-loving giant from a children’s fairy tale . . . or perhaps a
frightening mutation of a man who used to be of average height but was exposed
to high levels of radiation and is now 20-feet tall, hairless and clothed only
in an enormous diaper.
Either way, the
thrill of luring mangos down from their lofty perches is a real adrenaline
rush. Yesterday, I spotted a rare beauty about 20 feet up the tree and moved in
for the conquest. Just as I maneuvered the picker into position, a squirrel
with impeccable timing boldly leaped from a nearby branch and clasped onto the
prize fruit deflecting my picker with its long bushy tail and strong hind legs.
Momentarily stunned, I regained my balance using the picker to joust and jab at
the mango-crazed rodent.
“Stick to gathering nuts
and seeds, you mangy tree rat,” I taunted. “How would you like to spend the
rest of your life in a small cage spinning around on one of those little wheels?”
After a frenzied battle
that dislodged several dozen mangoes and coated me and the picker in sap and
fur, the insurgent squirrel begrudgingly gave up and took flight. As he
disappeared over the fence, I raised the coveted fruit to my mouth, chomp off a
hearty bite and bellowed triumphantly, “Who dares challenge the Mango King!?”
P.S. I am currently appearing
in the Citrus Growers Community Theater production of Mango of La Mancha. Good
seats are still available.
In a senseless and tragic accident, I shot a rubberband across the room yesterday. Here's the chilling 9-1-1 call.
There comes a time in a man's life when he must decide whether to be a big fish in a small pond, a small fish in a big pond, or a fish special on a menu of diverse offerings that may include Seared Peppered Scallops with Orange-Soy Glaze, Moroccan Chicken with Eggplant and Almonds, and Blackened Red Snapper with Creole Sauce. (SPOILER ALERT: After much soul searching, I'm going with "big fish, small pond.")
I'm a guy who will LOL when he finds something LOL funny, which apparently isn't as often as a lot of LOL people who will LOL without any provocation whatsoever.
It annoys me when TV weather people overstep their bounds and give advice like "good day to hit that street fair downtown." 
I'm publicly rebuking (yes, rebuking) my online Spell Check for failing to identify the correct spelling for "waltz" after I supplied it with the "w," "a" and "l." 
Not only am I ill-equipped to put my toolbox items to practical use, I have actually had the shameful bad luck of injuring myself while reaching into the toolbox to get something out. Now, we all have our levels of mechanical aptitude, but I think it fair to say that it takes a special talent to draw blood while rummaging around for something in the bottom of your tool case.
I'm working day and night to put together the Leno/McCartney reunion concert.
The phone rang the other night and when I picked it up a telemarketer greeted me by asking "Is the lady of the house available?"
Some things you outgrow as you get older - like acne, idolizing athletes, and giggling when someone mentions Uranus. 
When one door closes, another . . . 
At 50 days into 2010, the New Year's resolutions I made last December now strike me as a to-do list created by someone who doesn't know me very well and has NO RIGHT to tell me how to live my life.
Partner With Other People to Diversify Your Inventory. No matter how convinced you are that the bounty of treasures crammed in your closets will add up to garage sale gold, pooling your resources with others is your best strategy for keeping the crowd from becoming surly and demanding access to the rest of the house. 
In my experience with spicy food there are five levels of hotness. They are, in ascending order:
Would love to hear this at a church service:
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It is young people like them who restore my faith in this country's future - a future where trampolines that have lost their way and have no voice to scream for help in the wilderness may have faith that they will be searched for, found, revived and (when the weather warms up) repeatedly jumped on.
Confession: I'm not just lactose intolerant - I'm lactose hostile. 
