Coffee time in Ferney-Voltaire
🍦🍦🍦 🥭
There are several Friday conversations going on at once: some of us discuss fruit ice cream and sherbet as the young daughter of one of our group lavishes attention on her passion-fruit ice cream in a sugar cone. Orange, lime, raspberry, strawberry, lemon, blackberry, mango, a rainbow of flavours, a reverie of tastes……..
I tune back in a minute later to a discussion about fried mangoes.
Hmm, sounds exotic, perhaps a tad awkward to pull off. But then of course bananas and plantains are fried, pineapple is flambéed, pears poached, apples caramelised….not so far-fetched.
I imagine skilled gourmet chefs. Grappling with the gelatinous mango pulp, flipping a skillet — fruit cuisine requiring skill…. accompanied by a tot of rum? crême fraîche? but then who but a chef would bother with it?
Mangoes are delicious au naturel. Hot mango on toast? Hot mango waffles? Hot mango stew? I am off on a mango daydream. Amazing, I say, in all these years of international gastronomy I’ve never encountered….
…….when one of my friends giggles and says, er sorry….we’re talking about dried mangoes, have you ever tried dried mangoes?
The reverie angles off: fried dried mangoes! I have a vision of sautéed leathery, desiccated mangoes…..in butter perhaps? Would they look like orange kippers? Perhaps as a winning side dish in an exotic brunch? Or maybe pre-soaked but not for too long, plumped up to its original pulpy state. But then you’d be stuck in the same situation: sauteeing squishy mangoes.. ……..worth it? Dried then soaked then fried, well no…..
Re-directing my attention to the conversation, the proverbial penny drops as my friend had said “we’re talking about Dried Mangoes”
It’s simply Dried Mangoes. Have you ever had Dried Mangoes? There is no fried.
Life can be so simple and straightforward.
But then ADHD has me dreaming up eccentric recipes during this quiet conversation with friends.
…….Hmm perhaps a sprinkle of coriander and a flick of nutmeg?…….
So for the hearing issue, there are hearing aids.
Hearing aids are now part of my life, charging up in a box with a USB C slot, le dernier cri in ear technology. Used intermittently, as the spirit takes me: little plastic commas invisibly tucked into the ear with a clear fishing line that’s cradled in the inner curve of my ear (the concha), and a discreet microphone, a dream away one generation ago.
We control them with our phone, adapt them to music, noisy restaurants, televisions and conversations.
When I’m not in a hurry, I remove them from their silver repository and curl one gently into each ear. Red one for Right and blue one for, well….left—should I accidentally drop them, as sometimes happens.
They are sturdy - the other day I entered a thermal bath wearing them and re-emerged with them faithfully lodged in my ears. No sweat.
They're my little helpers who occupy small spaces and enhance life, stimulate the brain and fend off cognitive decline.
Or so they say.
I hear therefore (I think) I am cognizant.
A PS lexicon of the outer ear: a lesson in anatomy, as well as in Latin and Greek.
It would need a clever mnemonic device to memorize this.....
Concha:
The fossa bounded by the tragus, incisura, antitragus, antihelix, inferior crus of the antihelix, and root of the helix, into which opens the external auditory canal. It is usually bisected by the crus helix into the cymba superiorly and cavum inferiorly.
Now I begin wondering if part of my ear is bisected by the crus helix......um....does it matter?
Now about that ADHD….....
