A perfectly ripe mango

The perfect mango doesn't announce itself. It yields slightly to pressure near the stem, releases a sweet fragrance that carries just far enough, and gives way under the knife with the kind of resistance that means business. Most people grab the rock-hard specimens at Vons, then wonder why they taste like disappointment. The Keitt variety stays green even when ripe, which trips up shoppers hunting for that familiar blush. The Tommy Atkins, ubiquitous in American supermarkets, looks pretty but delivers all fiber and no soul. Neither mistake matters when you find the real thing.

Timing is everything and nobody teaches it. A mango picked too early never recovers, no matter how long it sits on your counter. The good ones come from trees that know their business, harvested at that precise moment when sugar peaks and flesh reaches its proper give. Fairmont Mango, tucked into Fallbrook's hills an hour north of San Diego, grows Valencia Pride mangoes that put grocery store fruit to shame. The Ramirez family has been working these trees since 1979, and they can tell you exactly which day each variety hits its window.

A ripe mango cut properly yields perfect cubes that hold their shape but melt on the tongue. The hedgehog method works if you know where the pit sits, which most people don't. Score the flesh in a grid, turn the skin inside out, and the fruit presents itself like it was designed for the purpose. The juice runs down your wrist anyway. That's not a flaw in technique. That's the point.

San Diego's year-round farmers markets overflow with Hayden and Edward varieties that never see a shipping container. Hillcrest Farmers Market on Saturdays, Pacific Beach Tuesday Market if you're coastal. The vendors know their fruit. Ask when it was picked. Ask when to eat it. A perfectly ripe mango eaten at the right moment is a small, sticky victory. Tomorrow it's overripe. Yesterday it was potential. Today it's ready.