I can't catch a fucking break! Last night I came home late as usual. I work in the fucking restaurant industry and my hours suck. Anyway, I wanted a quick, simple snack: plank-grilled barramundi with a cilantro-mango salsa spiked with a touch of brunoised jalapeno for a little spice.
Well that didn't fucking happen.
Don't get me wrong, I had all the ingredients. (They're staples in my kitchen.) What I didn't have was the fucking patience for that damn mango. As an international celebrity, I travel the world and see the best it has to offer. I've seen amazing things.
I've learned that we can create a vacuum cleaner that works by itself. We can invent beer bottles that signify when it is cold enough to drink (although I still prefer the fucking touch method).
The ridiculously large and wide pit takes up so much of the mango. I don't know about you, but I buy a mango for its juicy, sweet flesh. Not its fucking pit. Apparently the pit didn't get the memo.
What's more is that so much of the flesh hangs on to the pit. Not that you want to eat that flesh anyway. It's fucking fibrous; the pit has ruined it, depriving us of yet more of the stuff we crave.
And don't fucking tell me about the scoring trick that everyone does. I don't believe in scoring a mango and then folding it so that the flesh cubes pop out.
And do not -- DO NOT -- mention the fucking OXO Mango Splitter to my face.
Those are two examples of humans giving up on a genetically modified mango with a pit that doesn't fucking take over the fruit.