Narrative
Mango Season in Nevis: A Sweet Symphony of Flavour and Community By Faith Henry
As the sun rises over the lush hills of Nevis, the
air becomes infused with the intoxicating scent of ripe mangoes, ready to be
harvested. It’s mango season on this idyllic Caribbean Island, and vibrant hues
of golden yellow and deep orange dominate the landscape. Everywhere you look,
life bursts forth as families and friends gather to celebrate the island's
bountiful harvest.
For the locals, mango season is a cherished time of
year, steeped in tradition and nostalgia. Children eagerly anticipate the days
when they can climb the towering mango trees that grace the island, their
branches heavy with fruit. I can still remember the thrill of those summer days
spent with my cousins. Armed with baskets, we would dash toward the nearest
tree, laughter echoing through the air. The excitement of the hunt began as we
scanned the branches for the juiciest, ripest mangoes.
“Over there! Look!” Rashad called, pointing toward
a mango hanging just out of reach. “That one’s perfect,big and yellow!”
"I’ve got it!" I shouted, already
scrambling up the tree. My hands gripped the rough bark, and my heart raced
with the anticipation of reaching the prize. “You’ll never catch me!”
"Wait for me!" Rashad cried, following
close behind. "That’s MY mango!"
The race was on. We scrambled up the tree, dodging
branches, our baskets bumping against the trunks as we climbed higher. The
moment I reached the ripe mango, I plucked it from the branch, holding it aloft
with a triumphant grin.
“You win again, girl,” Rashad laughed, shaking his
head. “I swear, you must have monkey blood in you.”
I tossed him a teasing smile. “You were too slow.
Maybe next time!”
Each mango tree seemed to tell its own story, some
were ancient giants, gnarled and wise, having stood the test of time, while
others were young and full of promise. As we reached up to pluck the fruit, the
smooth skin felt warm from the sun, a testament to the bright weather that had
nurtured them. The moment we sank our teeth into a perfectly ripe mango, the
world around us faded away. The juicy flesh burst with sweetness, a refreshing
explosion of sunshine that made our taste buds dance.
“Ahh, this is the best!” I sighed, savoring the
first bite. The mango juice dripped down my chin, but I didn’t mind. “You can’t
get anything better than this.”
Rashad wiped his hands on his shirt and grinned.
“Tell me about it. This is what summer is made for!”
“You guys sure know how to pick 'em,” Auntie Jean
called from the porch, shaking her head in mock dismay. “Didn’t I tell you that
you should’ve brought me some of those?”
“You snooze, you lose, Auntie!” Rashad teased,
tossing her a mango. “Catch!”
As the day unfolded, the mangoes transformed into
more than just a delightful snack; they became the heart of our meals. In the
kitchen, my grandmother would teach us the art of making mango chutney, a
recipe passed down through generations. The aroma of spices filled the air as
we blended mangoes with ginger, garlic, and a hint of lime. This vibrant, tangy
chutney perfectly complemented the grilled fish we caught from the
crystal-clear waters surrounding Nevis.
"Alright, gather round, everyone!"
Grandma called, her voice carrying over the clatter of pots and the scent of
simmering spices. "I need some helpers with the chutney today."
“Grandma, you always make the best chutney!” I
said, pulling up a chair next to the stove. “How do you do it?”
“Well, first thing,” she said, chopping fresh
ginger, “you’ve got to have the right mangoes. None of those sour ones. They
gotta be sweet and ripe like sunshine. Then we add the ginger—just the right
amount—or it’ll overpower the mango.” She winked at me. “And don’t forget the
lime. A squeeze of lime brightens up the whole thing.”
“I love when you let me add the garlic,” I said,
grabbing a clove. “I think it makes it extra special.”
Grandma smiled. “You’ve got a good nose for
seasoning, girl. Just don’t get too carried away with it!”
As the chutney simmered on the stove, my uncle
Jonah fired up the grill outside, the smell of the fish wafting through the
open window. “This fish will be ready in ten minutes, folks. Who’s hungry?”
“I’m starving!” Rashad yelled from the porch,
rubbing his stomach. “Is the chutney ready yet?”
“Not yet, but it’s close,” Grandma called back.
“You just wait, Rashad. You’ll be the first to taste it.”
“I’m just here for the fish and chutney,” Uncle
Jonah said with a grin. “The mango’s just a bonus.”
Mango season isn’t just about the fruit; it’s a
time for community and connection. Neighbours gather for mango parties, where
everyone brings their own unique mango dishes to share. From refreshing mango
smoothies to decadent mango puddings, the island is alive with flavours and
laughter. We would sit together, swapping stories and savoring the rich
culinary tapestry that mangoes helped to weave.
One afternoon, we gathered in the village square
for the annual mango feast. The long picnic tables were laden with bowls and
platters, each dish more tempting than the last. Auntie Ruby, who was known for
her delicious desserts, was the first to arrive.
“I brought my famous mango pie!” she announced,
setting the golden-brown pie down with pride. “Fresh from the oven!”
“Y’all know Auntie Ruby’s mango pie is the best
thing on this island,” Mr. Clarke said, giving her a knowing grin. “You got
that recipe locked up, right, Ruby?”
“Of course, I do!” Auntie Ruby replied with a wink.
“But you’ll never get it. It’s a secret, passed down through generations!”
“I’ll take a piece anyway,” Mr. Clarke said with a
laugh, reaching for a slice. “Who needs the recipe when the pie is this good?”
Auntie Ruby smacked his hand away. “Not so fast,
Mr. Clarke. Let the others get a slice first!”
As the laughter and chatter flowed, Auntie Jean
arrived, carrying a large bowl of mango salad. “This one’s got a twist,” she
said with a grin. “I added a bit of mint and some roasted coconut. You won’t
believe how good it tastes!”
“Mint AND coconut? You’re really outdoing yourself,
Auntie Jean,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, someone has to keep things interesting!” she
winked. “You’ll thank me after you try it.”
Everyone dug in, swapping stories and enjoying the
bounty of the season. I caught up with old friends and cousins, exchanging
memories of past mango seasons.
“Remember last year when we tried to make mango
smoothies with too many bananas?” Rashad asked, laughing. “We ended up with a
weird-tasting mess!”
“I thought we were going to invent a new fruit,” I
teased, shaking my head. “Banana-mango smoothies just don’t work!”
“Well, you can’t say we didn’t try something new,”
he shrugged. “Next year, we’ll get it right.”
As the sun began to set, casting a golden hue over
the island, the mango trees stood tall as a reminder of the joy and
togetherness that this season brings. The warmth of the day lingered in the
air, and we found ourselves beneath the trees, reminiscing about the memories
made. Mango season in Nevis was more than just a time for harvesting fruit; it
was a celebration of life, love, and the bonds that unite us.
“Does anyone else think mango season should last
all year?” I asked, looking around at the group.
“Don’t start with that again!” Uncle Jonah said,
laughing. “You know we’ll all miss it too much by the time it’s over.”
“I’m just saying,” I grinned, “mangoes make
everything better.”
“That’s the spirit,” Grandma said, her eyes
twinkling as she sat back in her chair. “Mango season is the time we come
together, share what we have, and make memories. That’s the best part.”
As we headed inside for the night, our bellies full
and our hearts even fuller, we knew that the magic of mango season would linger
long after the last fruit had fallen. Each bite of a mango carried with it a
piece of our island’s spirit, a sweet, sun-soaked taste of home that we would
cherish until the next season rolled around.
Even now, far from the island, the memory of mango
season in Nevis is a comforting warmth that I carry with me. Every time I bite
into a mango, it’s as though I’m transported back to those long, sun-drenched
days, still surrounded by the laughter of my cousins, the taste of my
grandmother’s chutney, and the unmistakable feeling of being part of something
much greater than myself.
























