An Ode on Figs

Figs are my favorite fruit, except for tomatoes. It’s finally fig season, three glorious weeks when I will eat figs everyday if I can. I like Mission Figs, Turkey Figs, and Kadota Figs; in fact, I have never met a fig I didn’t like—unless it’s in a Newton. What a way to ruin the perfect fruit.

Eating figs is like eating ambrosia and having sex at the same time. Sorry for you sensitive types out there, but that’s just the way it is.

We had a Kadota Fig tree in our back yard years ago. It was always trying to fall down, and finally it did. I cried when I realized that I could no longer go out and pick my own figs.

Now I am reduced to snagging figs off of my neighbors’ trees. They don’t eat them, what can I say? My neighbor Scott is never home, so his figs are fair game. I have another neighbor around the corner whose fig tree extends onto the sidewalk—again fair game.

Of course I also buy them at the grocery store. Our produce guy always points me to the figs when I come in; he’s got my number.

I do have to fight my son for them; he is turning into a fig fiend too. My husband can take them or leave them. Smart man.

Hmm, all this talk about figs has given me an appetite; I think I’ll go for a walk.