I remember when the mangoes were in season. I slice open their flesh, into their meat. Golden and glistening. The knife runs close to the core, graces it, and I angle the blade away. Slide it down until it comes out the other side of the protecting fruit, an ovary, the quartered piece falls on to the wooden cutting board. The fragrant nectar pools. Flecked with yellow pulp. My knife catches the sun and blinds my eyes for the shortest moment.
He cuts tomatoes, cilantro.
I chunk the mango, throw out the skins. I take the small squares of fruit, slide them off of the cutting board into a large glass bowl using the knife to scrape the reluctant ones. Golden juice sits on the cutting board. I bring the corner of the board to my mouth, and tilt it up so the juice waterfalls on to my tongue. The sweetest, packed with what I crave.
Now I cut potatoes, pears, tough apples, squash of yellow and green. The cutting board is dry and stained. Things are more hearty, dense, fibrous. Slower flow. Tough and starchy. Wrinkled from lack of water, crunching and crispy.
It’s just the season.