It’s midnight and I’m inadvertently launching pieces of mango around my kitchen.
I love a ripe mango as much as the next person and lord knows I’ve been waiting for this mango and it’s been waiting for me. It’s traveled many, many miles on top of it’s already extensive journey from it’s country of origin (maybe Kenya), as through poor forward planning it has ventured from Moseley (South Birmingham) to Tamworth (just North of Birmingham) and back, becoming the subject of some unintelligent puns;
Is my man going to bring me a mango?
Hey, man, go and get me my mango!
The puns were neither imaginative nor varied in nature.
I whiled away the hours clumsily inserting ‘mango’ in to songs, with limited coherence and success
Hey mango, mango italiano
Oh mango, oh you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away (to Tamworth)
Don’t man-go breaking my heart. I couldn’t if I tried.
Wake me up before you mango go, don’t leave me hanging on like a manyo-yo
But now? Now I had to prepare the ripe fruit in to manageable chunks of yellow flesh and it’s not easy. Eating fresh food is not easy. It takes time to peel and chop and prepare and yes, I know you can buy it ready-done, but it’s more expensive, the food doesn’t last as long and it makes for more balanced, non-ranty blog posts.
I arrived home after 17 waking hours to prepare a salad, carrot sticks and a multi-cultural mango. My fridge looks like a ram-shackled shanty town of Tupperware. I try to limit my use of disposable bags because as well as being healthy, I feel a requirement to be environmental conscious. Furthermore, Tupperware feels like an acceptable collectible for the contemporary woman, yet harking back to the matriarchs of yester-year who partied with such plastic pleasures.
I have tangented somewhat.
Mango preparation is hard. Consider yourself warned.
Mangoes are available at all places where you can buy mangoes (hey, I’m not an affiliate marketer).