Last summer I wrote in this space about discovering figs. This summer I was ready for them. My neighbor with the fig tree started texting with progress reports in mid July. In August, they hit: Figs. Figs, figs, figs, figs. I’ve been on many fig-retrieval expeditions in the last two weeks. I arrive, bowl in hand, when possible with a taller friend, and I pick and I pick, racing the squirrels and the birds for the ripe, reddish fruits.
Figs caramelized in honey and butter on ice cream? Yes. Figs in a cake with almond and black pepper? Yes and yes. Figs cut up in my morning granola? Yes, please. Figs straight from the tree? Absolutely, as long as they don’t have any bird poop.
The birds are pulling ahead in the race now, but that’s fair; I have access to a supermarket but they have to find their own food. Fall is coming; the peaches will run out and so will the figs. I appreciate that even in my city apartment, surrounded by concrete, the fig tree is there to tell me what season it is.
Photo: Helen Fields
Figs and goats cheese. Melted. With balsamic vinegar. Trust me.