Mango Season Phone Calls

When the mangoes come into season in Florida, my mom calls me every single day to report on her tree.

"Twelve ripe today." "A squirrel stole one. I yelled at it." "Mrs. Ramirez next door got a bag; she's making salsa." She sends photos of each mango, individually, like a proud grandmother.

I live in Minneapolis now, where mangoes come from a grocery store sticker. Every June she ships me a box packed in newspaper, with a handwritten note that says "Eat these immediately. Do not refrigerate. Call me."

I eat the first one over the kitchen sink, juice to my elbows, and call her with my mouth full. She laughs. "Good?" she asks. "The best," I say, every year, and every year it's true.