“Can we check if the mangoes are out yet?”
I asked my dad this knowing fully well that ripe mangoes made for consumption by taste buds exposed to India’s collective flavor pallet had yet to come out.
To be more clear, I am referring to edible mangoes as determined by pairs of eyes that search over the mango’s skin for flaws as if it were a prospective bride or groom, and fingers that make sure to bring Facebook’s antiquated poke feature back into fashion.
The mangoes are prodded with abandon and the boxes are lifted every which way in search of their origin: Mexico? Brazil? Certainly not India. For those mangoes grown on their native land are unavailable in these neck of the non-tropical woods.
I’m missing the mango season, that coincides with the throes of summer, at home. Therefore I am missing the mango-shakes that my parents almost always blend to perfection: The proportion of non-fat milk, to the understated sugary undertones, that are combined with peeled and no longer pitted mangoes, are crushed with ice for a pulp-less light orange delicacy.
“You can buy mangoes over there. There are plenty of Indian groceries where you’ll be, We’ll get you a small blender.” my Dad responded.
I am convincing myself to be less dependent on my parents for matters such as these. I need to learn how to make my own mango shakes. I need to be able to live like an adult: do what I want, when I want, and unhindered.
I need to make and refer to as “home” wherever I find myself.
I was mentally putting the picture of me in a kitchenette, part of a studio apartment that may or may not even have one bedroom, with dry cracked hands as a result of my paranoia that causes me to wash my hands before and after peeling, gutting, and cutting the mango.
I saw myself starting out the task with confidence. My back was erect, a needlessly dirtied bowl or cutting board with the mango pieces that I’ll have to transfer to the blender anyway.
After realizing my oversight, I drop the mango pieces into the blender and put the bowl into the sink. Wanting to get the cleaning of the bowl over with, due to my paranoia of bugs, I’ll clean the bowl and wash my hands before proceeding.
My hands are drier than before.
I then see myself dirtying a measuring cup by pouring the milk in there when I could have poured it straight from the carton and into the blender. You see, I do not trust my measuring judgments and in order to prevent from pouring too much milk, decide to use the marked cup.
Out of habit, I see myself cleaning the measuring cup after pouring the milk into the blender.
My tolerance is dwindling and time is continuing, the minutes accumulating without regard for humans who sometimes describe a minute as “quick.”
Can you blame Time?
I mentally visualize having finally finished the task of making the mango shake.
The consistency is too thick and I’m getting light-headed trying to suck up the drink using a straw.I dilute the drink and am able to take a refreshing gulp. Unfortunately, I now see myself swallowing a bunch of pulp.
I’m snapped out of my reverie.
“But I won’t have an ice maker,” I blurted out.
I was reminded that there are such a thing as ice trays. You know - those plastic contraptions that when filled with water and placed into a freezer form ice cubes.
Those pesky colorful plastic quadrilateral-planed trays wreak of the 90’s so much so that even taking out the ice cubes for use requires a task akin to making high sodium and long shelf-life Shake n’ Bake food items.
In order to prevent my back from giving out and not overwork my fairly new laptop, I have decided to use the laptops provided by the place I work in.
Problems on problems on problems - This should not be much of a surprise should you have read my blog prior to this post, or even while reading this post.
The laptop is so old that it is overheating underneath my always cold, and therefore always dry, hands.
The keyboard looks dirty and unkempt. I remind myself that I got over the fear of my fingers coming into contact with keyboards used by the public while in college.
There are over 1,000 files on the desktop alone.
The new Internet Explorer is not supported.
My Twitter feed is stalled.
I’m in the heart of Manhattan.
I think I need to make an overpriced Duane Reade run and buy Bayer for my geographical coordinates.
Where am I located?
I take a look at the Compass App on the iPhone.
The rapidly moving numerical directions are not keeping up with my New Yorker walking pace.
I know my way home.