I first ate mangoes in Mexico as a high school student. They were ripe and slightly squishy, and faintly smelled of pine. Someone showed me how to slice off a slab from the side, and scoop out the flesh with a teaspoon. The juice dribbled down my chin and arms, falling in fat, orange drops from my elbow to the dusty ground below.
There were ten of us high schoolers on an outreach project near Tijuana. We spent the week running kids' programs and hosting evening gatherings at local churches. And every day at breakfast I ate a juicy mango. I savoured every bite of them. I used my teeth to gnaw off the stringy bits of flesh around the huge seed.
