(no subject)
So, yeah. How about those mangos.
Laura thought I should share...
The mango. My fruit of choice. Intertwined with South Asian culture. National fruit of India and Pakistan. Fruit of the gods in the Hindu Vedas. Refreshing. Healing. Erotic.
Also tied to Hispano-America, and indeed that’s where mine come from-Mexico, Chile, maybe Ecuador-they all taste the same to me. Sprayed with pesticides and crated, mangos-ripening in a cloud of ethanol-find their way by truck to the produce section of my local supermarket.
Some time ago, at the inception of my fascination with mangos, my interests were by no means limited to the consumption of fruit. Additionally, I was becoming increasingly involved with botanical matters. As a project in my spare time between classes, I had taken on the task of restoring the greenhouse adjacent to my father’s high school biology classroom to functional condition. While initially I thought this would simply be a matter of cleaning up, I would later discover that this greenhouse could be an inhospitable and even cruel place.
When I began, the greenhouse contained no more than ten plants, all succulent or at least tropical. Their conditions varied, and reflected the years endured in this volatile environment. Daily I spent half an hour in the greenhouse, if not caring for the plants, then running my fingers along their forms, appreciating their complexity, or enjoying the sharp contrast between the temperature of the greenhouse and that within the school on the other side of the door.
As time passed I began to pursue botanical experimentation. Propagation was my primary goal, and I explored the various methods by which this could be achieved. Though my methods were crude, I was often successful. After trying with the plants in the greenhouse, I moved on to sugarcane. Before long my attention gravitated toward what lay at the center of that sweet orange flesh I had been devouring all along: a seed!
Prying open the seed shell of mango after mango, I found their contents to be of varying quality. Many were mottled, rough in places, discolored. On rare occasion a seed would be in perfect condition: smooth, white, with a developing radicle at the bottom. Those seeds which looked viable I wrapped in a moist paper towel, placed in a zip-lock bag, and left for several days or a week in the warmth of the sun, where most began to germinate. Some would begin to rot in the bag and others once placed in soil. A select few lasted further into germination, but only one would ever penetrate the soil’s surface.
Almost daily I would dig the seeds out of the small clay pots which contained them to observed their developmental progression. What I derived from this ritual, in addition to the satisfaction of mediating life, was a kind of fetishism. The physical appearance of the seeds was highly suggestive of some sort of hermaphroditic sexual duality. Fascination became obsession.
I developed for these plants a genuine affection and lovingly attended to them, providing constant moisture to shield them from the dry heat which pervaded the greenhouse. One morning, I discovered that overnight one seed had completed its germination, thrusting a three inch stalk, complete with seven tiny leaves, through the substrate which by now contained a considerable network of roots. I was delighted, ecstatic. This emotional state I had not experienced recently. The following morning I opened the greenhouse door, excited to be greeted again by my delicate, green companion.
In its place I found a dry, black structure emerging from the soil, That of my plant which had been exposed to direct sunlight had burned alive. I was devastated. Denying what was all too obvious, I placed the plant beneath a table, out of the sun. Desperately I hoped a new stem would arise. But after several days, when the cotyledons began to decay in the soil, I had to accept the unbearable reality. My mango tree was dead.
Laura thought I should share...
The mango. My fruit of choice. Intertwined with South Asian culture. National fruit of India and Pakistan. Fruit of the gods in the Hindu Vedas. Refreshing. Healing. Erotic.
Also tied to Hispano-America, and indeed that’s where mine come from-Mexico, Chile, maybe Ecuador-they all taste the same to me. Sprayed with pesticides and crated, mangos-ripening in a cloud of ethanol-find their way by truck to the produce section of my local supermarket.
Some time ago, at the inception of my fascination with mangos, my interests were by no means limited to the consumption of fruit. Additionally, I was becoming increasingly involved with botanical matters. As a project in my spare time between classes, I had taken on the task of restoring the greenhouse adjacent to my father’s high school biology classroom to functional condition. While initially I thought this would simply be a matter of cleaning up, I would later discover that this greenhouse could be an inhospitable and even cruel place.
When I began, the greenhouse contained no more than ten plants, all succulent or at least tropical. Their conditions varied, and reflected the years endured in this volatile environment. Daily I spent half an hour in the greenhouse, if not caring for the plants, then running my fingers along their forms, appreciating their complexity, or enjoying the sharp contrast between the temperature of the greenhouse and that within the school on the other side of the door.
As time passed I began to pursue botanical experimentation. Propagation was my primary goal, and I explored the various methods by which this could be achieved. Though my methods were crude, I was often successful. After trying with the plants in the greenhouse, I moved on to sugarcane. Before long my attention gravitated toward what lay at the center of that sweet orange flesh I had been devouring all along: a seed!
Prying open the seed shell of mango after mango, I found their contents to be of varying quality. Many were mottled, rough in places, discolored. On rare occasion a seed would be in perfect condition: smooth, white, with a developing radicle at the bottom. Those seeds which looked viable I wrapped in a moist paper towel, placed in a zip-lock bag, and left for several days or a week in the warmth of the sun, where most began to germinate. Some would begin to rot in the bag and others once placed in soil. A select few lasted further into germination, but only one would ever penetrate the soil’s surface.
Almost daily I would dig the seeds out of the small clay pots which contained them to observed their developmental progression. What I derived from this ritual, in addition to the satisfaction of mediating life, was a kind of fetishism. The physical appearance of the seeds was highly suggestive of some sort of hermaphroditic sexual duality. Fascination became obsession.
I developed for these plants a genuine affection and lovingly attended to them, providing constant moisture to shield them from the dry heat which pervaded the greenhouse. One morning, I discovered that overnight one seed had completed its germination, thrusting a three inch stalk, complete with seven tiny leaves, through the substrate which by now contained a considerable network of roots. I was delighted, ecstatic. This emotional state I had not experienced recently. The following morning I opened the greenhouse door, excited to be greeted again by my delicate, green companion.
In its place I found a dry, black structure emerging from the soil, That of my plant which had been exposed to direct sunlight had burned alive. I was devastated. Denying what was all too obvious, I placed the plant beneath a table, out of the sun. Desperately I hoped a new stem would arise. But after several days, when the cotyledons began to decay in the soil, I had to accept the unbearable reality. My mango tree was dead.