The other day, I saw a prompt question that asked: List your five favorite fruits. At first, it sounded easy. But then I stopped. Do I even have five fruits I truly love?
I started counting. Mango—definitely. Jackfruit, yes. Buko (young coconut), for sure, especially with the juice. And then… I paused. Peanuts came to mind, though I know they’re not technically a fruit in the usual way we think of fruits. But I used to love them so much that my list wouldn’t feel complete without including them. Sadly, I’ve had to give them up—my body decided it didn’t agree with them anymore. That started after pregnancy. One day I could enjoy them freely, and the next thing I knew, my body would break out in an allergic reaction. It felt like a small heartbreak, really. Something I used to enjoy so casually suddenly became a threat.
Mangoes are an interesting case too. For a while, I thought they were off-limits because I started getting allergic reactions after eating them. But I discovered something along the way: if the mango is perfectly ripe and fresh, no problem. But if even a part of it has gone a little off and I happen to eat that part, the allergy kicks in. It’s strange how specific it is, but I’ve learned to listen to my body and just be careful. I still eat mangoes, but now with extra attention—and a little prayer that the fruit is as good as it looks.
Jackfruit is one of those rare treats I get excited about. It’s not always easy to find, depending on where I am, and when I do find it, it’s usually already cut and packed in small containers. That’s fine, but nothing beats seeing the whole fruit, opening it up, and pulling out the bright yellow pods yourself. It’s a fruit that reminds me of home. In the Philippines, jackfruit trees aren’t rare. If you grew up in the province or had family in the countryside, chances are you’ve had fresh jackfruit picked straight from the tree. The taste is sweet, sticky, and rich. It’s a flavor I’ve never stopped craving.
And then there’s buko. Young coconut. It’s not just about eating the soft white meat, which is delicious on its own—slippery, tender, subtly sweet—but also about drinking the fresh, cold juice. Nothing beats it on a hot day. The juice feels like it reaches deep into your body and washes away every bit of heat and tiredness. It’s natural, refreshing, and somehow comforting.
But if I’m being honest, that’s probably where my list ends. I do eat other fruits—banana, apple, mandarin, pear, grapes—but it’s not because I love them. It’s more because I know they’re good for me. They’ve got vitamins, nutrients, fiber—all the things we know our bodies need. So I eat them regularly, but not with the same kind of excitement. It’s a little like taking vitamins in sweet, chewable form.
Funny how something as simple as a question about fruit led me down this path of remembering. Thinking about fruit took me back to my childhood—days when eating fruit wasn’t just about nutrition or taste. It was about adventure.
I remember the tamarind tree at my grandmother’s (Lola Marija’s) house. It was huge. Back in high school, my cousins and I would walk home from school, and we always passed by her place. Sometimes we’d drop by just to see her, but often it was to grab some tamarind (sambag). We’d climb the tree—barefoot, no gear, just using our hands and feet—and reach for the plump, brown pods hanging from the branches. We’d break them open right there, while sitting on a branch, and eat them fresh. Sour and sweet, with a taste that hit your tongue and made your eyes squint a little. We’d laugh, eat another one, then gather a few more to bring home in our pockets or school bags. It wasn’t just a fruit. It was a memory, a routine, a reward after school.
We also had coconut trees in our farm, and I was pretty good at climbing them. At least, I thought I was—until one day, something unexpected happened. I had already climbed a good way up and was reaching out to grab a coconut when a tuko—a large gecko—appeared and bit me. It wasn’t a hard bite, more of a shock. But the surprise of it nearly made me fall. I somehow made it down safely, but after that, I never climbed a coconut tree again. That was the end of my fearless tree-climbing days.
Mango trees were another part of our childhood landscape. My grandma had two of them, and when mango season came around, it was an event. The trees would be heavy with green and yellow fruits, and my cousins and I would spend hours climbing, picking, tasting. We weren’t always patient enough to wait for them to fully ripen. We’d grab the green ones, peel them with our hands, dip them in salt or vinegar, and eat them on the spot. The sourness made our mouths water, but we loved it. Mangoes in every stage of ripeness had their own charm. Sweet, sour, soft, or crunchy—there was a mango for every mood.
Looking back, it makes sense why I only truly love a few fruits. The ones that are tied to strong memories. The ones I didn’t just eat—I experienced. Mangoes, jackfruit, buko, tamarind—they’re all more than just food. They’re reminders of simpler times. Of dirty feet, scratched knees, and sticky fingers. Of the joy that came from climbing trees, from being with cousins, from feeling like every fruit you picked was a treasure.
Even now, when I eat these fruits, I don’t just taste them. I remember. I remember the people I was with. The places I used to run around in. The smell of the bark, the rustle of the leaves, the thrill of reaching just one more branch higher.
So yes, maybe I don’t have five favorite fruits. Maybe three or four at most. But those few mean something to me. They’re more than enough.
What about you? What are your favorite fruits—not just the ones you eat, but the ones that bring back memories?
