For a year in Europe I searched for the perfect mango. They were always either too green or too hard or they did not smell the way a mango is supposed to smell. Ironically, I remember my first mango being eaten in Geneva, not in some tropical paradise full of mangoes. My mother was busy peeling one in the kitchen and asked if my sister and I wanted to try, and previously I had thought they were disgusting, but now my favourite part is cutting of the flesh and then sucking off the remaining bit in the pit so that all the juices spread over your face and run down your arms. It is rather piggish, but it is the best part.
Mango time is summertime. Mangoes are knowing I'm home and it's holidays and everyone is relaxed.