Mangoes

I'm absolutely rubbish with mangoes.

Ask liz. She'll tell you how funny it is how many times she's had to show me the best way to operate on one. She seems to posses this preternatural sense of exactly which two sides of the thing contains tasty fruit, and which two sides contain rind-like deception. I can never guess correctly. Lately I've been getting better, but, i still resemble an ape in the kitchen when i personally decide it is time to have a mango. You'd think i didn't even have opposable thumbs, how often the slimy sucker slips from my fingers and finds its way to the kitchen floor.

That usually has to happen twice before i cry for help, and then liz will come and help ease pretty slices of orange goodness into my bowl. She usually doesn't even laugh at me. much.

I thought of all of this this morning at breakfast. Surrounded by the chatter of Ecuadorians getting ready for a day of work, i found some space at one of the plastic tables for myself, desayuno in hand. Luckily, in the mornings there are some hot trays of self-serve eggs and some meat or tortillas set up, so the nice women dishing out the food don't have to chuckle at my severe lack of spanish when i attempt to coax some huevos from them.

There's also quite the spread of different frutas, and most splendidly are the mangoes. They're so fresh, and so grande that they barely fit into a cereal bowl. Here's where my anxiety sets in, though. Jaw firm and eyes squinted, i grasp my butter knife and begin to make waste to my little orange delicacy. I start at the edges, like my good wife taught me, and peel back the rind along the part that i'm pretty sure is edible. They pre-slice these monsters somewhat, if only to get them to fit nicely in a single tray. At first this seems like an aid of some kind, pointing out what sides are good much more easily than just having to guess at the verde outerskin. But the truth is that the fruit is so much more deceptive now, and you can still guess completely wrong.

My entire stay at this camp has had a theme of me sticking out a bit. I know with absolute certainty that if this mango gets free of me and flies to parts unknown, i will not be able to finish breakfast. I will have to quickly rise with my tray, shove it at the rolling rack of dirty dishes, and move quickly and purposely down the dirt trail. I have important things to do. I can't be concerned with the delicate surgery of native fruits! Out of my way. And watch your step back there, some Gringo tossed his mango off the cocina.

Fate smiles. I have guessed the correct side. I begin to peel big, fat, soap sized pieces from the mango. It tastes so fantastic. And then, then I feel liz chuckle to herself thousands of miles away, for reasons she does not know. And i smile.