Your Pleasure Principle Guide to the Ultimate Summer Food

Gold.

An internationally accepted symbol of first place, right?

A winner above all other competitors.

A superlative about to be up close and personal in a few seconds reppin’ the epitome of summer food fun-fests.

It should have a cape.

A temple for worshipping adherents.

Its own blog.

That's where components of my digestive and nervous system could weigh in on the explosive ecstasy of the Mighty Mango.

The Inevitable Encounters Mango Convo Blog

Eyes: Hey there, honeybun! Now that’s some lusciousness to change life right there, boy.

Mouth: Oooh—lemme bite it!

Central Nervous System (CNS)–Brain and spinal cord: Dopamine surge detected cuz umm sensing nuttin’ but MANGO. Yo, nerve impulses! Reign them hands in quicker.

Mouth: Bring it here! Lemme bite it.

Stomach: Did somebody say mango? Oh YESSSSSSS! Shovel that bad boy down here. We ready. WE READY!

Eyes: Whoa. Slow ya roll. Might need a little longer to ripen…not much give from the fingers. A day or two more tops.

CNS: You sure ‘bout that Eyes? I mean, super sure?

Eyes: Yup. Hard as a rock.

Stomach: Aw-awww!

Mouth: %@*$!

CNS: Hey, language!

Mouth: Rats.

Could my mango love emanate from the fact that they thrive in tropical climates? Like me.

Of how an entire body relaxes with first taste of heaven as it yields moisture richness to moisture mouth and days of stress drain away into liquid luxuriousness?

Or that they’re so unassuming, the humblest among fruits. Just a lump of oval smooth organic matter making no promises and not drawing attention to itself like apples or pineapples or grapes—no offense you guys, cuz you know I got mad feels for you too.

No held pretentiousness whatsoever yet overflowing internal tank levels of “Ima. Rock. Your. World.“

That their outer peel ranges from green to red to yellow and orange golden hues like the picturesque Saw Palmetto trees dotting the northern shore foregrounds of Bermuda-secluded coves enjoyed by summer day camp packs. Staple outing kids only-stampedes that left the area havens early enough so myself and friends could catch yellowish setting sun shift orangey-red against the miraculous backdrop of a warm magenta softened horizon.

Mangos hold memories.

Multiple caresses with knowing touch to remind me of every place I hung out that summer. Ferry rides. Sunday Hotel Brunch. Kayak runs. Stingray watch.

At least mine do.

Why wouldn’t they?

I’ve whispered numerous sweet nothings while enthralled in illustrious fruity flesh that outstripped inhibitions in an instant. Slurp sounds. And a tongue-trailing bloodhound style for all I’m worth to avoid missing golden drip lines of past honey sweetness escaping in all directions.

Mangos are easygoing.

The only summery food I know, that whether written in plural form, mangos or mangoes, is grammatically correct. Kinda cool to know your healthy indulgences have pride of place and are no respecter of spelling rules.

“You’re such a tease,” I tell this beloved majestic as I reverse lick my forearm on the far side in a game of Twister for one well challenging enough.

There’s juice everywhere.

Duh.

That’s the point.

There’s beach everywhere. If the stickiness gets too much, jump overboard. Added indulgence layers...

“Aaaand where you think you going when you know you wanna get in mah belly?!

*Nom-nom-nom-nom-nom-nom*

“You are greater gorgeousness every day post-Summer Solstice, y’know that? Patient sought after sweetness that I want to take swimmi—mmm. Mmm-mm-mmmmmm…Oh yes!”

…

“…”

…

A few awkward moments.

When my eyes adjust to those nearby exemplifying the phrase “silent as the grave.” They’ve become long-forgotten childhood summer-stretch games of ‘Stuck-in-the-mud.’

Frozen.

Stares without blinks.

Doesn’t everybody talk to their food while they eat it?

Not comprehensively.

Just the really delicious make-your-toes-curl-involuntarily-and-your-lips-become-passion-principles edibles.

Heightening the experience.

The frolic of total immersion at that moment.

Ain’t life a countless series of moments? I want mine to be mango ones.

Don’t people pay out major moolah to take classes in sensory experience and mindful eating that mangos teach for free? Huh-huh-huh?

I am no ways embarrassed.

Strange looks are a small price to pay for bliss this big.

Mango memories…

I remember as a young child traveling for a ‘70s Summer Girl Guide (US equivalent Girl Scouts) chaperoned group trip to Jamaica and the Bahamas. My Mom is one of the group leaders. Hazy spots of somewhere at local market Kingston, Jamaica. Me, buying yellow sunrise, forgotten and packed in the carry-on bag. Our plane arrives in Florida for the next leg of the journey.

Holy Fiyah Rum Fruit Loops, what a different travel era that was!

Mom finds mango in said bag and has conniptions up the yang for reasons I cannot begin to fathom.

Orders me to the ladies' room to eat the “evidence.”

My first Jamaican mango, sealed in summer vacation tour as I stood over a Miami airport trash can in the bathroom, liquid gold melody spillage in more places than a tiny young thing could begin to lick, but itty-bitty me doing as much tango as I could mango.

Days pass but the memory doesn’t.

It’s the juicy ones that stay.

Mouth: *Ahem* Hasn’t it been long enough?

CNS: I believe Mouth has a point. Eyes can you facilitate a mango check?

Eyes: Sure thing. Hmmm. Fingers, yes….fingers detecting just the right amount of give. It seems we got a green light.

Mouth: BIIIIIIIIIIIITE!!!

Eyes: *Pupils dilating* Upon my naked word, this is beautiful.

Mouth: YES!!!

Stomach: Yes TWICE!

Mouth: Yeah buddy!

Eyes: *Rolling back in head* Oh dear LORD! Puh-LEEZ tell me you’re recording this brain!

CNS: _____

Eyes: Brain?

CNS: *System temporarily offline* Dopamine rush overload.

Eyes: What the halloumi fries—

Stomach: —THIS IS LIFE!

Mouth: Sometimes, I think this is better than—

Eyes: —Don’t even! You’re coming back as optical sensory organs next life.

Mouth: Heh-heh-heh-heeee! But not in this one. *Mmmmmm*

Imports from Mexico. Brazil. India. Bangladesh. Malawi. Nigeria. Spain. The list of mango-growing countries remains lavishly longer than my arm. An inspiration summer trek list of all the places I’d feel right at home to visit and stay awhile.

Mango sucking near a cafe like I've been there forever.

A national chain grocery store in the UK, where I’m currently residing, had summer mango sales on a regular where the price could drop to a couple of pence. I’d stock up. Mostly Brazilian mangos.

What did I relish the most about it?

Hard to pick a perk.

But those mangos were, what back home, we’d call GIRT big. I could slow soothe my senses all afternoon. A serious love sesh.

Is there a mango export I wouldn’t eat?

Believe it or not, only one. I’ve seen produce from Israel I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. There’s a mutual understanding. Responsible consumer here. I won’t support any export product benefitting an occupying force. Even if they are mangos.

No such thing as ‘struggle’ and ‘mango’ in the same sentence.

But easy ways to start a full-on verbal assault.

“WHO ATE MY MANGO???!!!

Midday to late-night gatherings with toes in sand at water’s edge and mango mixed with sea salt. Longtails calling. Aerial love displays of flying courtship. Tree frogs wait in the wings to bleep for evening chorus. The unmistakable dull crunch of ice stock as someone grabs a cold one from the cooler. Horsehoe Bay. John Smith’s Bay. Warwick Long Bay. Jobson’s Cove. Pontoons. Secret spots for skinny dips (hush!) Tides rising and falling with friends who became legends and 'tune' (Reggae music) blasting from not-too-distant car speakers or portables.

Mango ready.

Refrigeration never needed.

'Nuff-nuff' nutrients to fill you, banish the hunger growlies while laughter and reminiscence mingled. No clue on how much I’d miss these times…now living in a world where everyone could use a lot more mango.

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