A few years ago, I lived with a family in Honduras, in a tiny village far from civilization, where I learned to speak Spanish. Every morning, I loved to watch my little Honduran brother climb atop one of the many mango trees that surrounded our little house. He would examine each and every mango carefully in order to choose only the best ones. While enjoying a nice breeze that only he could feel nested in the height of the branches, he would pick perfectly ripe mangos for the family. Fortunately for me, he would keep what he considered to be the most tender and would offer it to me with the most beautiful smile. This rustic, but exotic mix, evokes memories of the happy innocence of this child, and the sweet flavor of freshly picked mangos.