Pepperseed is right....I do have both Jamaican Black and Ice Cream mangoes and I did write about both previously. I have been searching for the thread that I wrote about the Black mango but cannot find it. I did say that I would not have purchased it, in hind sight, based upon how it has turned out. Not being from Jamaica, I have no idea what the real Black mango is supposed to be. I bought mine from Maurice Kong (who is Jamaican) and it is a very small and uninteresting mango. The tree is also a small one and a very slow grower......close in size to Ice Cream.....so in that sense, they are similar....at least at my house. The fruit, however, is nothing like each other. Ice Cream has that strong resinous taste and complex flavor, is light color, almost white fleshed while Black has yellow/orange flesh and little or no resinous twang. The fruits are shaped totally different. But who knows, for all I know, maybe what I have was mis-labeled. As far as the doudouce mango....I have never heard of it. Based on its size and fiber content, I don't think I would be interested in growing it. Harry

I'm working on a web site now and putting together samples of many cabinet styles and butcher block tops. I won't put up the web site until those are finished. The piece pictured above is an older piece I had sitting around. The newer version has slightly different proportions. The top is thicker, as are the slats and bottom rails. Also, the finish is different. There are many different configurations: closed cabinets; open pot racks on one end or both; cantilevered top for seating, etc., in many different finishes and styles. You can basically get anything you want. My email is johndisanto@earthlink.net. I'll answer your questions from there.

Here is an interesting article that I ran across today...really speaks to this topic: ========================================================== One writer struggles to believe that a new house does not equal a new and better life. by Jodi Helmer Everything would be different -- if only I lived in that bungalow; the charming one with the gabled roof, dormer windows and wide front porch. I would throw dinner parties, sit on a leather sofa in front of the fire, bake biscuits in the kitchen, sip sweet tea on the front porch, wear colorful rubber boots to work in the garden and let the dogs run free behind the white picket fence. It's my own house -- too tall, too thin, too little charm and a neighborhood that's not hip enough -- that makes this lust so palpable. Or so I've convinced myself. I stand under a towering oak tree across the street and stare; I walk past after dark to peer in the lit windows for a better view of the interior; I search real estate websites for virtual tours. All the while, I imagine the life I could have if I lived in one of the picture-perfect bungalows. Things would be different. Cozier. Better. "When you covet a house, it's not the house you're after, it's a different version of your life," said Meghan Daum, author of the book Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House. "We trick ourselves into believing that it's our house that's holding us back; if we moved into a new house we'd be a better cook, our relationships would be better, we'd be thinner, we'd entertain more..." I feel better knowing that I'm not alone in thinking a new house equals a new life. From the moment I signed on the dotted line to buy this townhouse in 2007, I had plans to sell. Maybe that's why I'm always looking over my shoulder at other houses -- because I've always believed that the house I own now is just a place to live until something better comes along. In fact, each time I think I've eyed the perfect house -- the one I'd cash in retirement accounts and inheritances to own -- I develop a crush on another one. Even if I'm fortunate enough to own one of the bungalows in my favorite neighborhood, I'm certain that I'll continue to lust after other houses. I'll develop crushes on houses in more desirable neighborhoods with bigger front porches, prettier gardens and more historic appeal. If there is one thing I know about house envy it's that the condition is chronic; the attraction to real estate never stops. A few months ago, I hatched a plan to move into the perfect house. One evening, while I was walking the dogs, I noticed that one of the little bungalows I loved had a "For Rent" sign in the front yard. I took a flyer and spent the rest of the week trying to figure out how I could move into that house. Once again, I was picturing myself hosting dinner parties, drinking sweet tea on the front porch and wearing rubber boots in the garden. A friend suggested that I rent out my townhouse and move into the little bungalow. It was the perfect solution -- and then I thought about what moving would really mean. The truth is, I would rather meet friends at a restaurant than entertain; I hate leather furniture almost as much as I hate baking and biscuits; I prefer Diet Coke to sweet tea; and the last time I had a garden, the plants were either overgrown or dead. While I am waxing poetic about wide front porches and picket fences, I am ignoring all of the things I love about the house I own: It's just the right size; there are French doors in the kitchen that lead to a private patio, an oversized bathtub in the master bedroom and loads of storage space. There are even dormer windows. Blinded by bungalow lust, I've forgotten one of the most important things about the place I live: It's more than just a house; it's a home. It's the place where I mourned the end of a marriage and celebrated the thrill of falling in love again. It's the place where I negotiated my first book contract and spent countless hours hunched over a computer in the office to meet the deadline. It's the place where I made Christmas dinner solo for the first time, cutting potatoes and carrots with a dull paring knife and checking the roast 20 times to see if it was cooked. It's the place where I fostered six dogs, doling out rawhides and cleaning up accidents until each one found its forever home. It's the place I retreat to; the place I feel safe. The house is not perfect. There are no hardwood floors, no built-ins and no picket fence -- but there are memories and each one is far more important than a big front porch and wide wood moldings will ever be. I know I'll never be cured of house envy. I'll continue to fall in love with a new house on each block but the next time I'm standing under a towering oak tree and peering in the windows of a picture perfect bungalow, imagining what life would be like if I lived there, I'm going to remember that it might be a beautiful house but it's not home.

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