A few days ago, I ate the very first mango of the season.
Come to think of it, it was actually still very much out of season, as I haven’t seen another one for sale since then, and I seem to recall from last year that the South African mango season doesn’t start until closer to December. The cold winter months of June and July seem but a distant memory now that it is practically summer again, and it is agonizing having to wait over two more months for mangoes to make their regular appearance on store shelves and street corners.
So this one single mango was like a gift from heaven, and I savored every last bite of it. I’ve heard some people say – people who are much more seasoned expats than me, with many more international moves under their belts – that these mangoes here are nothing compared to the ones in Asia, but I can’t imagine this to be true. South African mangoes are high on my list of expat joys. When they are in season, I keep a steady supply of them in our fruit bowl, making sure they ripen but don’t ripen too much (this is an art, just as it is an art to cut up the mango once it’s ready, an art I’m afraid I still haven’t quite mastered, but can it ever by mastered with such an unpredictable pit?) and Jabulani and I will devour at least one a day, standing up, our mouths dripping.
My out-of-season mango, wherever it came from, was absolutely perfect.