Soul Journal

The mangos are nestled in separate padded hollows, the market stand only a few feet wide. It’s Autumn and they’re heading out of season, and their cost reflects it. I gently pick one up, inhaling the glorious juicy aroma. I close my eyes, and stand for a few long seconds, allowing the scent to transport me back to a trip to far north Queensland, where the mangoes weighed down tree branches in sunshine bright patches around the town. The streets were steamy with the smell of overripe mango flesh, the rich flavour sweet and sticky as it dribbled down my chin.

I return the mango to its bed, and thank the grower.  He grins, pleased to have observed someone relishing an aspect of his produce. I frequent the farmer’s markets most Saturdays, and we often exchange pleasantries.  Apples are good right now, he says with gusto. They look delightful, I agree. They are arranged in neat pyramids, his stall overflowing with Fuji, Golden Delicious and Granny Smith. I take a half-dozen of each, and plans to bake and stew fill my head as I continue shopping.

It’s warm, and the colourful umbrellas over the sellers create an air of festivity. The patches of shade sway in time to the breeze, and I raise my face to the sky in greeting. The sunshine is divine, and the day feels alive with opportunity.

Beetroots are also in season, and I brush my hand over their bulbous bodies, the dark, rough skin revealing little of the velvety red inside. I have always loved the beet. It can be pickled, baked, and stewed, it’s high sugar content making it an interesting ingredient to work with. The deep crimson stain makes it feel sexual, an orb of mystery and shadowy potential.

I select four, and place them in my cotton bag. The grower winks at me as she hands me my change, as if able to see my thoughts.  In my youth, I would have blushed at this, I think to myself. There is a level of comfort in ageing. So many experiences. I let my hand brush hers, lightly, as I collect the coins. She is of similar age to me, and radiates lightness and vitality. I drink in her slim waist and pert breasts, pronounced underneath the navy camisole. She watches me, her smile flirtatious as we acknowledge the flickering traces of desire that dance around us in the sunshine.