Behold the mamey. I ate half of one of these every morning when I last visited Cuba in 2007. They were fresh from my uncle Carlos's backyard out near Bejucal, in the outskirts of Havana. My sister sliced them and served them with love and I did my best to eat my share, despite how thick the fruit felt in my throat. Before that 2007 trip, I had only ever eaten mamey in smoothies, mixed with lots of milk and sugar and served by waiters in Miami who called me "reina" or "princesa." Eating chunky slices the consistency somewhere between avocado and sweet potato was a challenge. My brother had to help sometimes when my sister wasn't looking. There we were, full grown adults acting like kids over breakfast. I love the memory of it and couldn't resist picking up a mamey for Malanga Baby when I saw them at the local supermarket this week.
It's a big fruit, as you can see, and has served as baby breakfast for several days in a row now. Malanga Baby gobbles it up, my good little cubanita.
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