When Proust dipped a Madeleine into his tea and bit into it, it stirred memories that resulted in À la recherche du temps perdu, the longest novel ever.
Tonight I bit into a mango and was transported back to 1949, when I climbed to the top of a Black mango tree full of the sweet little beauties, and ate so many I couldn’t come down. I had to be rescued by George the gardener.
That’s it. There is no more. Sorry, there’ll be no Jamaican
À la recherche from me!