mango, we meet again

When I was four-years-old I moved to Georgetown, Guyana.

I had myself a good time there. We had a rubber tree in the front yard, an acacia tree in the back, a mango tree in the side yard, and thus my older brother and I were able to develop our tree-climbing skills most fully. It was also where this delightful picture was taken.

Unfortunately, as a four-year-old my taste buds were pretty crap and I absolutely refused to eat anything that was not kool-aid, a hot dog, or macaroni & cheese. I did not eat curry, or plantains, or chicken (unless it was KFC), or piranha, and I most definitely did not eat mangoes. While I've grown out of being a picky-eater, mangoes have continued to be the bane of my existence. As a four-year-old they made me throw up, and as a twenty-something-year-old their acrid smell, their stringiness, their overall squishiness continues to make me nauseous.

Which brings me to today, when a very kind man from my self-employment workshop brought me a mango from the mango tree in his backyard I acted all excited and promised I would try it as soon as a I got home and that I would tell him all about how it tasted during our next workshop.

Ugh.

I don't think I can do it. But I think I'll have to.

In less terrifying de ja vu news, I climbed an acacia tree on the way to church last Sunday. It was exactly like I remembered. Awesome.