Indian Mangoes
After 26 years in the wilderness, a beautiful wilderness, there are some things that remind me of India but yet are not quite Indian.
Yesterday, after dinner, Annikki offered me a Israeli mango for dessert. It was so bad in taste that I had to ask her to take it away.
This evening, when I got home, there was a fragrant smell of a ripe mango, not overripe, but just right.
I looked at the three of the mangoes on the dining table and decided I would chance having one, despite my experience of yesterday.
I cut open one. It was obvious that this was the odd one out - it was delicious reflected in the smell, totally unlike yesterday's catastrophe.
But this got me thinking about Indian mangoes.
I have grown up on a diet of different types of mango - from the polymango at the school gate to the Banganapally, Mulgova, Langada, Badami, Raspuri and what they call the King of Mangoes - the Alphonso.
When we moved to India in 1969, for about a year we stayed in a small flat in the City Centre. Much against the wishes of all our family members we found a small house on the outskirts of Madras - Nandambakkam, where the colony was situated in a Mango Grove.
We had one ancient tree in our garden. It must have been a hundred years old. The old tree had a grotto facing the children's room. There lived a friendly snake who used to pop is head out and wish us the time of the day. It was too frightened to come out if we were around.
When Annikki's brother and his wife came to India for their honeymoon, we gave them that bedroom. Annikki casually mentioned our friendly snake - which was the cause of a disaster, as her sister-in-law could not sleep all night.
But the beauty of this old tree was the mango it produced. Each fruit was between 800 gm to a kilo. They were round like the Romany but bright yellow like the Alphonso. The fruits were jucier and sweeter than any other mango I have ever tasted.
Joanna, our younger daughter, was literally brought up on this mango juice, much to the horror of my older relatives who said that mango was too heaty for young children.
Joanna and all of us thrived on this tree for the time we were there.
The similarity to the Romany and this unnamed variety was how we ate it.
My dad had taught me that the easiest way to eat a round Romany mango was to cut it round the seed in the centre. Twist and the mango halves came apart and the seed ell away. One could spoon carve the mango out of the skin.
The mango I had today was nowhere near the taste of our Velacherri mango, but the smell was very close.
Oh for a good mango!
Yesterday, after dinner, Annikki offered me a Israeli mango for dessert. It was so bad in taste that I had to ask her to take it away.
This evening, when I got home, there was a fragrant smell of a ripe mango, not overripe, but just right.
I looked at the three of the mangoes on the dining table and decided I would chance having one, despite my experience of yesterday.
I cut open one. It was obvious that this was the odd one out - it was delicious reflected in the smell, totally unlike yesterday's catastrophe.
But this got me thinking about Indian mangoes.
I have grown up on a diet of different types of mango - from the polymango at the school gate to the Banganapally, Mulgova, Langada, Badami, Raspuri and what they call the King of Mangoes - the Alphonso.
When we moved to India in 1969, for about a year we stayed in a small flat in the City Centre. Much against the wishes of all our family members we found a small house on the outskirts of Madras - Nandambakkam, where the colony was situated in a Mango Grove.
We had one ancient tree in our garden. It must have been a hundred years old. The old tree had a grotto facing the children's room. There lived a friendly snake who used to pop is head out and wish us the time of the day. It was too frightened to come out if we were around.
When Annikki's brother and his wife came to India for their honeymoon, we gave them that bedroom. Annikki casually mentioned our friendly snake - which was the cause of a disaster, as her sister-in-law could not sleep all night.
But the beauty of this old tree was the mango it produced. Each fruit was between 800 gm to a kilo. They were round like the Romany but bright yellow like the Alphonso. The fruits were jucier and sweeter than any other mango I have ever tasted.
Joanna, our younger daughter, was literally brought up on this mango juice, much to the horror of my older relatives who said that mango was too heaty for young children.
Joanna and all of us thrived on this tree for the time we were there.
The similarity to the Romany and this unnamed variety was how we ate it.
My dad had taught me that the easiest way to eat a round Romany mango was to cut it round the seed in the centre. Twist and the mango halves came apart and the seed ell away. One could spoon carve the mango out of the skin.
The mango I had today was nowhere near the taste of our Velacherri mango, but the smell was very close.
Oh for a good mango!
