This is that special time of year when all that sweet stuff
comes together. Return of football
season, NASCAR’s race for the chase, the end of sweltering summer heat, and
ripening figs, all have arrived.
There’s not much I can do about most of that list except for
the figs, with which I can help.
Two neighbors who have large mature fig trees invited me and
my sainted wife over to harvest them.
This gesture is not as benevolent as one would believe. Although very tasty, they are very attractive,
too. They attract bees and birds who
create messes beyond imagination.
Indeed, we wound up as characters in a Mark Twain novel,
whitewashing the fence for Tom Sawyer, and thanking him for privilege.
For the novice “figger” – yes, I just made that word up –
figs come in different varieties and ripen at varying times. The figs we were after were ready and waiting
and birds were preparing for the kill.
With - all you environmentalists can take your medication
now - plastic shopping bags, we trekked roughly five yards to reach one tree
and manage to harvest roughly eight pounds.
Both bags were nearly full.
A couple of figgers, we brought them home to magically
change them into fig preserves. Hours of
cooking them down, sterilizing the canning jars and lids, and concocting a
special mixture of fresh-squeezed lemon juice and a modicum of sugar turned
those eight pounds of figs into over a dozen pint jars of awesome.
Some were shared with the trees’ owners, and others were
used to settle small debts. A few even made
their way into the fridge for use on toast and pork roasts, down the road.
But, the call came again.
“Come get more figs! They’re
ready!” summoned tree owner Camille.
Much to my sainted wife’s chagrin, we made our way back to gather
more figs to create more natural goodness and more stories.
This yield was a more controlled three pounds of super ripe
righteousness. It didn’t take long
before my sainted wife bucked like a wild bronco complaining about having to
cook these additional figs down to a manageable scrumptious slush.
Perusing her cookbooks for some sort of recipe for other
than preserves, my sainted wife discovered one for fig cake.
A mixer whirred while the over pre-heated. I helped by greasing the pan and giving some
stellar, free advice, for which we were all grateful.
After a few short hours, we had a tantalizing product that
needed taste testing. It was moist and
akin to carrot cake, only sweeter. The
addition of chopped walnuts added to its delight.
It was too warm to apply icing so, we waited until the next
day. It became a new cake altogether.
I was once told to ‘finish what you start.’ Excuse me while I finish my cake.
