Looking out my Backdoor: It is either feast or feast around here

“Here” being Jalisco, the Garden State of Mexico, it seems to be either feast or feast. One day it is too many tomatoes. Another day presents a splurge of tomatillos. On to a glut of papaya.

Today’s feast consists of a mess of mango. I must have been out of my mind. Weeks ago I made the decision that the only mangos I would see this summer would be the few I bought at the tienda for eating. No mermelada, which is jam in English. Every year I make mango jam. Every year I give away most of the jam. I mean, how much jam can one person eat!

Last summer after a bumper crop harvested from my young whippersnapper of a mango tree, I asked Leo to prune the tree, knowing that meant no mangos for this year. Pruning keeps the tree to a manageable height for harvesting. No mangos means no jam. It is hardly the end of the world, and truth be told, I still have a pint of last year’s jam in the fridge-freezer, to eke out judiciously on what I deem special occasions, such as, whenever I want mango jam. When the jam is gone, it is gone. No biggy.

Leo drove me to town to see my dentist in his quite wonderful, very old cup o’ truck. Wonderful in that it still runs, wonderful that it is of the vintage that is fixable. On the opposite side of the highway sat another venerable truck piled high with crates of mangos from the balneario on the way to Tequila, where grows the sweetest mangos in the world.

Leo lifted his eyebrow. I gave a nod. Mango season is short and the local mangos, the little yellow ones that are sweet and juicy, are snapped up whippety quick.

While I’m trying to figure out how many mangos I might need for one batch of jam, the young man tells Leo he’ll sell the whole crate for $750 pesos.

I stood at the back of the truck still pondering one batch of jam and three or four for eating, most of the money in my wallet scrapped and scrimped together for my new front teeth.

“$600 pesos,” the man says, seeing indecision on my face. Without thought, I handed him a portion of my tooth money.

Leo hefted a 35-kilo — 77-pound — crate of mangos into his truck. Just like that, I’m in the jam-making business. I must have been out of my mind.

I did go on into town and get my new crowns cemented into place. I gave my dentist a dozen mangos, the rest of my money, and a promise.

Definitely out of my mind. The following day I peeled mangos, juice dripping down my arms to elbows. I called quits and gave away a quarter crate. I have mangos to eat and mangos for the freezer for pie later in the year.

Today I made jam. And I made jam. And I made jam. Seven batches. My dining table is groaning under the weight of jam jars. At this point I don’t even know if I still like jam.

The problem is, sometimes I act as if I am still back on the ranch, hedging my bets against a year of hail and hoppers, no cattle market, and the chokecherries have blight. I’ve always had a tendency to fill jars as though I needed to feed the world.

I could have hand-picked a bag or two of mangos, made one batch of jam, and had more than enough for myself. As it is, I will keep the equivalent of a quart of jam, less than one batch, and give away the remainder.

See what I mean. I must have been out of my mind to buy the entire crate.

There is hardly anybody here on the Rancho for the summer, but as each family returns in the fall, I will greet them each with a gift of jam. Everybody loves mango jam.

Hmmm. Waffles with mango jam, thick sliced ham, might taste good. Maybe by morning.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.