Introducing....

Montana. And mangoes. When embarking on a journey such as this home on the Web, I figure it’s best to open with things one loves. I can’t help but believe that this was Al Gore’s truest intent when he created this World Wide Interweb Hypertext Web Internet. Or when he helped Mark Twain write books. Or when he invented the cotton gin. That damn Eli Whitney has been ridin’ Al’s coattails for far too long now….

But back to those things of which I love. Mangoes and Montana. Or, Montana and mangoes. They’re so interchangeable, aren’t they? I suppose it helps to love them so because they each begin with the first letter of my last name: “M.” “Closeness makes the heart grow fonder.” Or whatever the poets write. But strangely enough, I have no lasting affinity for Muttonchops, or Mustaches, or Monkey bars, or Moulin Rouge. Or Mao Tse-tung, for that matter. Though his name is fun to say. Try it. And again.

As with everything we all love, the vast majority of that entity has to be, well, loveable. Or else we would just “like” it. And certainly we hate things, too. Yet, for as much as we might love something, nothing is perfect. There’s always a side that rubs us the wrong way as if being forced to watch five minutes of According to Jim. Seriously, does that show have a director?


And so it goes for me and what I treasure. Both sides of the coin. Yes, I do live in Montana and love it. Mostly. (another “m” word!) But, I can get into all of that later. At the moment, I want to delve into mangoes.

Okay … I lied. I’m looking to get into all of that later, as well.

For now, I just want to state, for the record, that I did not taste the taste of my first mango until I was – are you with me? – 12 years old. Shock! Horror! Bloody screams! Hey, I grew up in Wyoming. What do you want? My parents didn’t work for Chiquita. We were lucky when we got oranges in the state. I didn’t see my first car until I was 10. Alright, maybe I just lied there a little again.

However, my love affair with mangoes did start on that prepubescent day and hasn’t stopped since. And what lifts one’s spirits and makes the world a better place? Adding alcohol, of course!

So, for next time, I’ll share my concoction for T-H-E perfect mango margarita. Trust me. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry. You might even vomit. My friend, Carrie, calls it the “Oops, My Pants Fell Off Mango Margarita.” Now if only I could ever be around her after she’s had a few sips.

Until then, repeat after me: “Mao Tse-tung, Mao Tse-tung, Mao Tse….”