Voulez-vous Manger la Mangue?

The first time I ever ate a mango I was in Mexico. I had never seen one before. I knew it was a tropical fruit, but I didn't understand the difference between mango, papaya, passion fruit, Richard Simmons, or guava. I knew they were all exotically fruity, but had no idea what they looked or tasted like. It's not that I had never had mango juice or guava juice or whatever--I'm sure I had had it throughout my life whenever I drank Ocean Spray or Capri Sun. It's just that I didn't recognize it for the specific fruit that it was. Rather, I just understood it was tropical and that's as far as I cared to think about it.

When a lady in Mexico gave me my first mango, I took it in my hand and stared at it, not knowing exactly what to do with it. How was I going to eat this slightly almondy-shaped, softball-sized food? It was covered in a thick skin, but by the feel of it I felt I could easily penetrate it without the help of a knife. What did it look like inside? Was it full of hundreds of tiny seeds? What color would it be? But my time for wondering was up. This nice woman had so generously offered me of her substance, and I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was very eager for me to partake. My strong sense of not wanting to offend (I know what you're thinking, you're thinking "Hasen, not wanting to offend? Then what's up with all those dirty jokes and obscene gestures he does in public?" Hey, why don't you just keep focused on the story and quit tryin' to ruin it for everyone, huh?) compelled me to take action.

I bit into that mango like John Candy biting into a huge steak, cooked or raw. The skin was tough, but I had resolved to eat the whole thing in front of this lady, so it didn't deter me. Imagine Godzilla breaking through a roadblock of a couple of small wooden sawhorses. I chomped, slurped, and tore my way through the skin, through the fruity meat, all the way down to the large single seed in the center, where I stopped. It was obvious I wasn't supposed to eat the seed.

That mango was delicious. I had never had anything like it. I had never heard of anything like it. Until that point, the best tasting fruit I knew about was peaches in Wheaties. I looked up at the generous woman who had shared her fruit with me (there's no metaphor there, in case you were looking) and she just kind of stared back in wonder, eyes wide, then an awkward smile crooked itself across her face. I thanked her for the gift, and left. When we were out of earshot of her front door, my friend named Elder, in very broken English, asked me why in the good name of gospel gumption did I do that.

"Do what?" I replied.

"Eat the skin of the mango."