Mangoes.

I want to be a mango farmer.
I would eat so many mangoes my skin would turn an orange.  I'd be full of vitamin A and beta-cartoene so the weird looks from the locals would be worth it.

I ate one today.  A huge mango.  Perfectly ripe and other worldly delicious.  I was scrapping the remnants off the skins with my teeth between slicing and was surprised to find myself sad.  Who in their right mind would be sad while indulging in something so delectable?  Apparently I would, the girl who is finding herself at home, in her parent's basement [literally], without a job or a real plan.  The girl finding herself trying to meet non-existant expectations, trying to let go of pride and trying to trust fully and live well in this season that she's not always super excited about.  The girl who is finding herself desperately homesick for California, she is getting emotional over mangoes.

It's funny how a little thing, in a thin situation, can elicit such a strong response.  The reality is that this emotional ninja sneak attack has nothing to do with the actual mango.  It is all of these experiences attached to the fruit.

Glass jars full of them, being slowly enjoyed by my beautiful roommate Joy over a weeks time. [sometimes longer depending on the busyness of life or if it got lost behind the layers in the chaos that was our refrigerator]   Learning the easy way to cut the messy fruit from Ben.  [forget peeling, just cut the thing and eat it off the peel.  easy. simple. just my style] Experimenting with Craig using pureed mango for the sweetener in granola when we was on the Levitical diet.  I just remembered having a conversation with a guy in Whole Foods [o, my second home how i miss thee] about which of the two types was better over samples from the clear plastic orbs on pedestals.

By the way I never thought I would become so attached to Whole Foods.  I always thought it was pretentious, but they won me over body and soul.  I can't find my favorite things anymore, even if they are a bit expensive, their absence is frustrating. But enough about my addictions to overpriced groceries, I'm wondering how long I will want to cry while slicing fruit?  Will I get the Northern California out of my system over time?  I suppose we will have to wait and see.  Until then, if you find me in the produce aisle sobbing uncontrollably it's either because I remembered the time I ate sugary medjool dates and broke open a fresh coconut with beach rocks or I am mourning the loss of simply being able to buy dates and Lundberg rice cakes.