All San Miguel is a-boil with excitement. In the fields surrounding our community, the jicama tubers have reached maturity. Farmers work through long days and nights to bring in the crop at its succulent peak. Jean and I and all of our neighbors are gorging ourselves on the crisp, juicy flesh.

Even Chiapas the parrot can hardly get his fill. (Let me tell you: Jicama-based parrot poop, you never want to have to deal with.)

A dozen or more stands have sprung up on the Celaya highway, giving out samples, selling baggies of ready-to-eat jicama, offering 50-pound net bags of tubers.

The stands are operated by growers. Yes, here you can buy your farm-fresh jicama; from the field to your table on the same day.

Some of the growers who operate these stands seem to live marginal lives. Not a lot of money in jicama, I guess. These children have the puzzled, almost outraged expressions I sometimes see on the faces of the poor.

When they grow up, these kids probably will vote PRD, and if they lose another close election, they may well revolt.

Paul (El Guapo) and I stopped to sample some of the new crop, along the way meeting this pleasant farmer's daughter. Her stand was marked by a hand-lettered sign that read "Jicama de Agwa (sic)."

Many of you are familiar with this vegetable. Especially if you live (or once lived) on the West Coast where it was introduced to Norteamericano diets. And many of you share my indifference toward jicama. It doesn't taste like much, and it doesn't seem to blend well with other vegetables.

For some reason, it's often found in the prepared salads you buy at places like Whole Foods. It has been accorded a healthy, organic reputation, favored by people who put flax seed on their cereal.

(Boy, I know I'm gonna hear about that crack.)

For my money, jicama doesn't taste any better than flax seed: insipid, dry, mealy. Of course, that usually means it really is good for you.

The friendly farmer's daughter explained to us that our dissatisfaction probably stemmed from our having eaten only Jicama de Leche. This term refers to Jicama that has been stored over the course of the year, when it becomes tough and fibrous and loses much of its moisture. She offered us each a slice of Jicama de Agua, harvested just yesterday.

What a difference! Juicy, complexly flavored—barely recognizable as the forgettable substance I'd been fed in California.

Paul is holding a ten-peso baggie of prepared jicama, seasoned with lime juice, salt, and chiles that the farmer's daughter had hand ground on her metate that morning. From his expression, you can see he can hardly contain himself, waiting for me to finish taking the photo before he digs in.

OK, Jicama is never gonna replace avocado or watermelon in my top ten. But it's no longer on my "avoid if possible" list—at least in Mexico and at this time of year.

Rosario makes a delicious salad of jicama, cucumber and mango, with the universal Mexican seasoning of lime, salt and chile powder. We'll be enjoying it for only a couple of weeks more, when mango season ends and the jicama de agua ages, transmuting itself into less-satisfying jicama de leche.