Magic of the Mango
I really can't count the number of trips I took to New York to help care for my aging father. The last 7 or 8 years of his life I watched him slowly diminish. The man I went out to museums, and movies, and out for escargot at a funny little place on 9th avenue....my lively New York dad, got frail and slow.
He eventually left the apartment only once in a while to go to Zabars, or to the dermatologist. I think I've inherited his skin now. But we still had fun indoors, playing hours of anagrams, watching rented movies… I would bake a lot of bread and freeze the loaves for him to have when I left. We'd be in the middle of watching something...'Moonstuck' maybe, which he owned, and he'd get an idea...something he needed to tell me...some bit of advice. He'd press 'mute', turn to look at me, and say, “You know, your sister will always have money.” It was on his mind... his worry about me and my sloppy financial habits. Sloppy or unconscious, or maybe just the norm for any artist. Dealing with money is mind-numbing and fills me with anxiety. It's a bad combination to be scared AND bored! Dad understood this mental twist. He had the same thing. I'm so grateful for that. After art school, when I moved to LA, I had one job after another and hated them all. I'd quit each one after about a year, run out of money, call him up feeling embarrassed and he'd always come through with a pep talk and a check. There was never a lecture or any advice other than 'keep painting.'
When he was 90 he fell in the bathroom while my sister was there. He said, “I'm alright. I'm sure I'm okay,” but she called 911 and they carted him off to the hospital. And it's a good thing. He'd broken 3 ribs and was bleeding internally. There was an operation, there was rehab, there were nurses at home. My trips were every 4-6 weeks, and of course everything was different then. There were no more anagrams or paternal wisdom being doled out. I couldn't stay in his apartment anymore with all-day and all-night nurses fussing around. They were a great bunch of women. Two from Jamaica, one from the Philippines, and one from the Dominican Republic. They would overlap often and two would be chattering away in his bedroom until he'd shout, “Would you PLEASE JUST SHUT UP!” He slept all the time. I found an Airbnb in the neighborhood that was beautiful and cheap...just a room with a bathroom in a brownstone, but so pleasing. It was like walking into a room in Paris, with a four-poster bed, and a grand piano, and a small marble table, floor to ceiling windows on one side with red velvet curtains you could pull closed. Almost every time I came to New York then there would be a medical emergency, always in the middle of the night, and I would leave my beautiful room and walk uptown to find Dad having a panic attack, unable to catch his breath. He was convinced he was dying, and we'd call an ambulance and cart him off to the hospital again. Once we got there he would look around and say, “What am I doing here?” There would be batteries of tests, and they would take hours. Sometimes he would be admitted, and I would sit with him until I couldn't stay awake any more, and I'd call one of his nurses to come keep him company so I could go back to my room and pretend to be in Paris. One particularly difficult hospital stay both my sister and I were there, bickering. We were always bickering then. She had endless energy to care-take him and boss everyone around. I handle these situations in a very different way and would always withdraw. It looked like I was present and paying attention, but I was hidden in my thoughts of an easier, softer place.
I think I've mentioned that I don't drink at all. It's been nearly 30 years since I indulged. This one night though, after coming back to my room, rattled and tired, I lay down on that big fancy bed and looked up at the velvet curtains and saw a drawing in the air, like a cartoon thought bubble....a large circle drawn in black with little circles in descending size coming out of the bottom. Within the circle, in fancy cursive were written the words 'Dry Martini'. It didn't scare me. It didn't even seem like an invitation to a drink, but I thought I'd better call my friend Walter in LA, who was like a west coast dad to me. A gay, smart, worldly, hilarious, kind, and compassionate substitute father. I got him at home and described an idea, which seemed very practical and do-able and reasonable. Of course, I mentioned the vision, which had evaporated, but my plan was to pack my bag and go downstairs and hail a cab to JFK to any domestic airline at all. I would buy a ticket for the first plane heading west, even if it was just to Kentucky. There I would get on another plane to Kansas or Utah, and there I would fly to Los Angeles. Walter listened calmly, and then said, “Oh honey. You don't drink, and you don't run.” There was that big window looking out onto 71st street. I was describing it to him, when he said, “And you don't jump.” We talked for a long time about the hospital and how frightened I was, and how tired. I think we covered every single thing that had happened in the last 24 hours. I went to bed and slept deeply for the first time since I'd arrived in New York.
The next morning, I walked one block north up to Broadway. It had fruit and vegetable vendors with rolling carts about every 3 blocks. It was late summer: mango season. They were big and ripe and 89 cents each. I bought a couple and brought them with me to the hospital. They were letting dad go home. His nurse from the Philippines was there when I arrived, and we traveled back to the apartment with him sleeping in the back of the van. We got him into bed upstairs and went out to the kitchen, where I pulled out the mangoes, now pretty squishy and over-ripe. She lit up. It was a favorite food from her childhood. Really, who doesn't love a mango?
This is a recipe that's creamy and rich, but has a serious zing because of the lime and vinegar.
Creamy Mango Sauce
1 cup peeled and finely chopped mango (1 large, or 2 small)
3 tablespoons coconut milk (use the heavy cream that floats to the top of the can)
1 tablespoon mayonnaise
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
1 tablespoon grated onion
Juice of one lime
A couple of fresh basil leaves, chopped fine
Pinch of salt
Put all ingredients but the chopped mango into a non-reactive bowl and whisk until incorporated. The heavy coconut cream that has risen to the top of the can may be almost solid. Scoop it out and microwave for a second or 2 and it will liquefy. Fold in the chopped mango. This sauce improves overnight, with the basil imbuing more strongly and flavoring it pointedly. Use over poached fish or, as a friend just did, a grilled gruyere sandwich. She said it was heaven.