【日记】三年级我爱吃的水果日记300字：第一次吃芒果

第一次吃芒果的日记

十月十二日 星期六 晴

今天妈妈买菜，带回两个芒果。它们躺在塑料袋里，一个胖一个瘦，皮是青里泛黄的，肚子上有一块块淡青色的小斑点。妈妈把它们放在果盘边上，说放两天再吃，硬的芒果咬不动，还涩。

我围着果盘看它们。芒果的形状像一个大逗号，一头圆一头尖，弯着腰，皮上有细细的纹路，像老人手背上的筋。奶奶说这叫腰芒，我们老家屋后就有一棵芒果树，果子比这两个小，可是更香。我把胖芒果拿在手里掂了掂，比一个鸡蛋重得多，比一个苹果轻一点。它躺在手心，扁扁的一面贴着掌纹，我觉得它像一只睡着的小船。

下午我忍不住捏了一个。表皮滑滑的，摸上去凉，指头按下去有点软，不像苹果那样硬邦邦。我把芒果举到鼻子底下闻，一股又甜又香的气味从蒂头那里钻出来，像蜂蜜混着花。我对妈妈说，这个肯定能吃了。妈妈说，蒂头香了才算熟透，你再按按两边。

晚饭后爸爸决定切芒果。他先把芒果竖着立稳，刀贴着核下去，把两边的大肉片下来，中间剩一个扁扁的核。然后他拿起一半，刀尖在果肉上横竖划格子，划到皮就停，不划破。划完他把皮往外一顶，果肉一块块翻出来，黄澄澄的，像一只张开花瓣的花，又像刺猬背上的刺。我拍手，管这叫切花刀。

我捧着那一半芒果，对着翻出来的果肉咬。果肉是软的，进到嘴里不用怎么嚼就化了，甜，甜里有一点点酸。就是纤维多，吃完满嘴的丝，牙缝里也藏了丝，我用舌头清理了半天。汁水顺着手腕淌，我舔了一口手腕，还是甜的。

妈妈把另一半切成小块，装在玻璃碗里，让我们用牙签扎着吃。弟弟抢第一块，扎歪了，果肉滑到桌上，他捡起来吹吹又吃，逗得全家笑。我慢慢扎，把每一块都转着看一遍再送进嘴里。碗底剩着汁，妈妈兑了点凉开水递给我，说芒果汁最好喝。我仰头喝完，碗底一圈淡黄的印子，像一小片云留在碗底。

瘦的那个芒果我留到明天。我在日记本上写：芒果要按一按，软了才甜；切花刀的芒果好看，也好吃。写完我想了想，又补一句：核上的肉最难啃，可是最甜，爸爸让我啃了。

Diary of My First Mango

October 12, Saturday, sunny

Mom brought home two mangoes with her groceries today. They lay in a plastic bag, one plump and one skinny, their skins green touched with yellow, patches of pale green freckles on their bellies. Mom set them at the edge of the fruit plate and said to wait two days, that a hard mango cannot be bitten and tastes bitter besides.

I circled the fruit plate and studied them. A mango is shaped like a big comma, round at one end, pointed at the other, bending at the waist, with fine lines on its skin like the tendons on an old person's hand. Grandma said this kind is called waist mango, and behind her old house stood a mango tree whose fruit was smaller than these two but more fragrant. I weighed the plump mango in my hand: much heavier than an egg, a little lighter than an apple. It lay in my palm, its flat side pressed against my palm lines, and I thought it looked like a little boat asleep.

In the afternoon I could not resist and squeezed one. The skin was smooth and cool, and my finger sank in a little, not hard like an apple. I lifted the mango to my nose, and a sweet rich scent came out of the stem end, like honey mixed with flowers. I told Mom this one was surely ready. She said a mango is truly ripe only when its stem end smells sweet, and told me to press both sides as well.

After dinner Dad decided to cut the mango. He stood it upright first, then ran the knife down along the flat stone to take off the two big cheeks of flesh, leaving the flat stone in the middle. Then he took one half and scored the flesh with the knife tip in a grid of crosswise and lengthwise cuts, stopping at the skin so it stayed whole. When he finished he pushed the skin outward, and the flesh flipped up piece by piece, bright yellow, like a flower opening its petals, or like the spines on a hedgehog's back. I clapped and called it the flower cut.

I held that half mango up and bit into the flipped flesh. It was soft, melting in my mouth almost without chewing, sweet with a thread of sour. Only the fibers were many; after eating, my whole mouth was full of strings, and strings hid between my teeth, and my tongue spent a long while cleaning them out. Juice ran down my wrist, and I licked my wrist, and it was still sweet.

Mom cut the other half into small cubes and served them in a glass bowl for us to spear with toothpicks. My little brother grabbed for the first piece, missed, and the flesh slid onto the table; he picked it up, blew on it, and ate it anyway, making the whole family laugh. I speared mine slowly, turning each cube around to look at it before sending it into my mouth. Juice pooled at the bottom of the bowl; Mom topped it with a little cooled boiled water and handed it to me, saying mango juice is the best drink. I tilted my head back and drank it all, and the ring of pale yellow left at the bottom of the bowl looked like a small cloud stranded there.

I saved the skinny mango for tomorrow. In my diary I wrote: press a mango, and only the soft one is sweet; a mango cut with the flower knife looks good and tastes good. Then I thought a moment and added one more line: the meat on the stone is the hardest to gnaw, but it is the sweetest, and Dad let me gnaw it.

窗台上的芒果

五月三日 星期日 阴转晴

今天姑姑从海南寄来一箱芒果，箱子里垫着报纸，每个芒果单独裹着一层白泡沫网。拆开一个，青皮，硬得像石头。姑姑在电话里说，别急着吃，先在屋里放几天。

我把芒果放在窗台上，每天看它。头两天它一点变化也没有，皮还是青的。第三天，青色从蒂头开始退，黄从那边慢慢漫过来，像一滴黄颜料在水里化开。第四天我伸手摸，表皮还是滑的，可是指头按下去有了印子，软软的，回弹很慢。凑近闻，有一股浓郁的甜香，比橘子香得多，有点像花蜜，又有点像熟透的香蕉。我知道，它熟了。

吃之前我还做了一件事。我把箱子里没熟的青芒果一个一个检查，有伤的挑出来先吃，完好的垫上报纸放回纸箱，纸箱搬到柜子顶上，怕妹妹拿去当球踢。数了数，一共八个，加上窗台这个，正好够全家吃几天。我在纸箱外贴了张纸条，写：芒果，别踢。字是倒着贴的，妹妹看不懂，还是踢了一脚，被妈妈发现了。

晚上我学着大人的样子切芒果。先把芒果立在案板上，它站不稳，滚了一下，我按住它，刀从离核两指的地方切下去，切下两片厚厚的果肉，中间剩下带肉的核。然后我拿刀尖在果肉上划格子，横五刀，竖五刀，手抖，有一刀划破了皮，露出一点红。妈妈说划破了也能吃，只是不好看。我把皮往上一顶，格子翻出一个个小方块，黄得发亮，可惜破的那一角塌了。

我低头咬翻出来的果肉。第一口汁就爆出来，甜得齁，舌头上像抹了糖。果肉细，几乎不用嚼，就是纤维挂在牙上，一根一根的。核上剩的那层肉我舍不得扔，对着核啃，啃得满脸汁，妹妹在旁边笑我像小花猫。我们俩一人一半，她吃方块，我啃核，吃到最后手指黏得合不拢，去洗了三回手。

我在日记里画了一个芒果，旁边写：摸过、闻过、切过、咬过，它才真正是甜的。姑姑说明年还寄，我要留一个放到最熟，最软的那天再吃。

The Mango on the Windowsill

May 3, Sunday, cloudy then sunny

Today my aunt mailed a box of mangoes all the way from Hainan. The box was padded with newspaper, and each mango wore its own sleeve of white foam netting. I unwrapped one: green skin, hard as a stone. Over the phone Aunt said, do not hurry, leave them in the room for a few days first.

I set the mango on the windowsill and watched it daily. For the first two days it showed no change at all, still green. On the third day the green began to retreat from the stem end, and yellow crept in from that side, slow as a drop of yellow dye spreading in water. On the fourth day I reached out and touched it: the skin was still smooth, but my finger left a dent when I pressed, soft, springing back very slowly. Brought close to the nose it gave off a rich sweet fragrance, far stronger than an orange, something like flower nectar and something like an overripe banana. I knew it was ready.

Before eating I did one more thing. I checked the unripe green mangoes still in the box one by one, set the bruised ones aside to eat first, and laid the perfect ones back on newspaper in the carton, which I moved to the top of the cupboard for fear my sister would use them as a ball. Counting them: eight in all, and with this one on the windowsill, exactly enough for the family for several days. I stuck a note on the carton that read, mangoes, do not kick. I pasted it on upside down; my sister could not read it and kicked the carton anyway, and Mom caught her.

At night I tried cutting the mango the way grown-ups do. I stood it on the cutting board, but it could not keep its balance and rolled once; I held it down and ran the knife in two fingers' width from the stone, taking off two thick slabs of flesh and leaving the meat-clad stone in the middle. Then I scored the flesh with the knife tip, five cuts one way, five the other. My hand trembled and one cut broke through the skin, showing a little red. Mom said a broken cut is still fine to eat, only not pretty. I pushed the skin upward and the grid flipped into little cubes shining yellow, though the broken corner had collapsed.

I bent my head and bit into the flipped flesh. The first bite burst with juice, sweet enough to catch in the throat, as if sugar had been painted onto my tongue. The flesh was fine-grained and needed almost no chewing, only fibers hung on the teeth strand by strand. I could not bear to waste the layer of meat left on the stone, so I gnawed against it and ended up with juice all over my face, and my little sister laughed at me for looking like a small spotted cat. We split the mango between us, one each: she ate the cubes and I gnawed the stone, until our fingers were too sticky to close and we washed them three times.

In my diary I drew a mango and wrote beside it: only after it has been touched, smelled, cut, and bitten does it truly become sweet. Aunt said she will send more next year, and I mean to keep one until it is the ripest and softest of all, and eat it on that day.