What we cook when the mangoes come in

There is a short window, usually late May into June, when the mango trees behind the kitchen drop more fruit than ten rooms of guests can eat. It is a good problem. For three weeks the whole menu bends toward it, and the kitchen smells like the inside of a ripe mango from breakfast until the last plate at night.

Breakfast and before

It starts simple. Sliced over yogurt, folded into the morning fruit, blended cold with lime and a little chile salt for the guests who wander down after a swim. The cook keeps a bowl of the softest ones by the coffee for anyone who wants to eat one over the sink, the way it should be done.

By lunch it has turned savory. Green mango, still firm, shaved thin into a salad with cucumber and herbs from the garden. A salsa that goes on the fish off the morning boats. The sweetness cuts the heat and the acid, and for those few weeks it is the best thing on the table.

The last of it

When the trees finally slow, the kitchen puts up what is left. Chutney for the winter, a syrup for the bar, a few jars that quietly appear at breakfast in December and remind everyone of June. Nothing about it is planned. It is just what you do when a tree decides to give you everything at once.