Got up from my desk to see what I could prepare for my lunch today. Before I could open the refrigerator, there on the kitchen counter was the crop of the day, Blackie Mangoes from our shady tree on the fence line. The main trunk splits into two; one side creates our natural greenhouse, the other hangs generously over the open lot, soon to be enjoyed by the builders as they break ground next week for our future neighbours.

The crop, some freshly hand picked, some fallen and bruised, but not battered - having touched down gently from a low limb into a potted plant or garden bed, or on to the soft zoysia grass - were all ripe and ready for the eating. Don't let the green skins fool you. Mango don' drop till it ripe, assures one of our Jamaican proverbs; a truism of our summer fruit as well as a word from the wise about the value of patience.

Not feeling like sitting under the shade of the tree, teeth tearing skin, juice running down forearms, I opted to stand at the kitchen sink and peel them, one by one. Yes, I had about 10 of them for lunch. As the knife slid under their thin skins revealing the rich, yellow, plumpy pulp, I sang a delightful Jamaican folk song:

​So, no "cook food" for lunch today. This is raw food at its best.
We have lots to give away. Run come, before the season done!