15 July 2010, 8:20pm, my parents' neighbourhood, Scarborough/Markham
This is my mom, chatting with Noori, our friendly neighbourhood mango seller. Since this summer began we've been seeing him regularly - at least once a week - to satisfy our mango fix. He's not always in the same spot but you can generally find him stopped by the curb of various corners in our neighbourhood.
Unlike the ice cream truck, he doesn't have to play that familiar and irritating jingle to get us running out of our homes for our sweet fix. He knows the people will find him when they need a fresh supply. It's true, we always do.
And with this constant fresh supply literally at our doorstep, my family is all about serving mangoes freshly sliced or shaken up with ice cream when we feel justified for a reward because we did anything. Yummy mango shakes are in a class of their own - let's face it, there's no dignified way to slurp a mango slice.
But, oh, is there any substitute for peeling that ripe orange fruit away from the skin and inhaling slice after slice? Manners go straight into the garbage, followed by the stripped mango peels. Only then do we think of napkins and mopping up the mess we've made. (You know you do it too, I'm not alone here.)
And yet, I wish we didn't see Noori so often for our summer dependency. I am a bit discontent with all of this fresh mango-ness constantly in our kitchen. Because while it is a fruit (therefore healthy), and rare since our summer is so fleeting, seriously, I think all these mangoes are making me fat!!