Since I lost my last pair of boxing gloves long ago & one of my high-heeled sneakers has lost its sole (or soul), all that remains is my wig-hat of critical theory deconstruction — to wit: a deconstruction through the lens of delisticlecaltion. My, my, how you over-complexify!
The basil is the simplest item to deal with — you’re growing the wrong strain of basil! Next season, plant Rathbone basil, a gentleman than whom no one ever buckled a finer swash. (That’s swash — not squash — though the latter deserves further coverage under the melon heading…won’t get it this time though, since in critical theory it’s important to focus on obfuscating at the finest grain possible.)
Rathbone basil is a genetic produce of the theatre and motion pictures, so obviously the floral signaling of sexual attraction and availability is all for show. Anyone who has ever made a play for an attractive actress can’t help but be aware if the difference. (Sadly, I speak from experience, but — since I’m a certified “purveyor of anecdotal information,” this should come as no surprise.) Just believe me. If you simply plant the Rathbone strain of basil, buzz about as they might, the seekers of sexual favors will all go away frustrated. The attractors are all for show.
As for your desire for seedless mangos, I suggest you seek professional help. Why, at your age, would you be avoiding the funky-funky get-down? Be bold, break free of petrification thusly:
To the left of your left knee (assuming you’re right handed) you need a full basket of ripe-to-over-ripe mangos. Between your knees you need a large plastic wastebasket (bathroom size is too small for people genuinely devoted to mango eating, but if nothing else is available, see “black plastic garbage bag” below).
Use your teeth to make a incision in the away-from-the-tree tip of the mango and begin peeling the skin away banana-style — except in a shallow — almost horizontal — spiral, as one would pare an apple. As with a good banana (which are impossible to find on the North American continent) you will naturally start eating before you’ve finished peeling. It is the utterly crude process that begins with that first bite that you so sorely need to confront — not for me, and only secondarily in the interest of maintaining the genetic integrity of the mango — but for your own good, Gutbloom. For. Your. Own. Good.
The point here is not to strip down for a full fledged orgy of sticky mango juice mingling. The proper angle of the left arm will ensure that the juice (less the minimal amount you smear all over your face) will run down your forearm and drip into the wastebasket below. As each mango is finished, it too — reduced now to seed and peel — is simply dropped into the wastebasket too.
Once satiation is reached — typically after several hours — the contents of all wastebaskets should be put in plain black plastic garbage bags and eventually carted off to the street in front of some troublesome neighbors house. (As they continue to ripen, those peels and seeds attract flies the way basil flowers attract bees.)
Now, I suspect Mehwar’s response of being deliberately provocative —not in the sense of “kinky” (I believe anyone wishing to have a nude mango fest should be able to do so without fear or favor) — but in his neocolonial application of the buzzword “savage.” The word has had its day of “coolness” e.g., as contextualized in the early work of Bolaño, but the bloom is now off the gut…er, I mean rose, as far as “savage” goes.
The appropriate time for strip-down/hose-off is obviously after the seeds and peels have been consigned to their black garbage bags, so that the icky-sticky bodies and the plastic wastebaskets can get hosed at the same time.*
- N.B. In the tropics, this hose-down can be quite refreshing anytime of the day or night. If you don’t live in the tropics, yet somehow manage to accrue enough mangos to indulge in this pastime, I suggest starting festivities at a time that will allow the hose-down to take place in strong to moderate sunlight.
Comes now my real area of expertise — the cantaloupe paradox. I grew up in the presence of several truck farmer uncles. The most avuncular of the lot was also the most successful — so much so that he typically sold out all his produce first thing in the morning and often spent the remaining pre-lunch hours touring young me around teaching the finer points of fruit and vegetable quality. The cantaloupe was a special case.
Despair not olfactory impediments. Many of the most telling indicators are tactile or aural: the squeeze test; the thump test; and many others. My uncle and I would choose two or three cantaloupes each, keeping them separate through lunch, where — in a double-blind test — members of the family would pick, not only the ripest, but also the most delicious cantaloupe.
This is not a matter of genetics! Cantaloupe assessment is rather a skill set — something that can and (arguably) should be learned by at least one member of every household. I’d go so far as to encourage each and everyone to send letters, Tweets and emails to Betsy DeVos to get this threatened skill set into our national curriculum — perhaps in place of history or, better still, English.
Excuse my brevity here. I understand that any decent piece of critical theory should be, de minimis, 6,000 words long, since it takes that much or more to communicate the fact that absolutely nothing can ever possibly be communicated in words.
