Late summer figs

Rêverie under a tree.

“Anoth’one mama, lì lì, più su” — a little finger points confidently somewhere above my head, deep into the fragrant jungle that is our favorite resident fig tree.

Whether it was deliberately planted in its unfortunate current position — backed against the barn, with its roots wrestling on one side with a wall and grappling with the crumbling earth of a steep bank on the other — or it sprouted spontaneously, we do not know. What we do know is that it made the best of its circumstances — it leans out languidly, with an air of unstudied nonchalance, and twice a year it produces a bounty of sweet delights, tempting enough to persuade even my 88-year-old grandfather to brave his way down the flight of slippery stone steps that lead into the garden, despite his uncertain legs.

There is something elegant about this tree’s stubbornness, about its determination to thrive in such an unwelcoming spot while preserving an air of graceful ease. In my mind, I imagine it as a chic-but-flamboyant fruit seller at the local market of a quaint little town on the French Riviera. Her jewel-green robes rustle musically as she leans out from her stall to nestle a couple of juicy figs in my hand — Aaaah, mais oui ma chérie, what about a figue for you? And one for the petite fille, sweet like her. Prenez, prenez!”

So here we are, enveloped in the sweet-scented embrace of its voluptuous, bendy branches. “Phiggs, mama, phiggs! Up there, guarda!” — Elowen’s finger is still pointing towards a cluster of phiggs hanging somewhere above my head, invisible to me but clearly not so for the keen brown-eyed pixie, whose gaze is now intently fixed upon the prized fruits. There they are — two perfectly ripe beauties.

There is something unexpectedly sensual about figs that bides one to touch them reverentially. Picking them feels like an act of love — you can’t just yank them thanklessly off their branch. They are too sumptuous, too sacred…

One touch and I can already tell that behind the creamy skin, inside is a triumph of rich, pink sweetness. She has spotted the ultimate figs. She’s learning fast. “What do we say to the tree, darling?” — prompts my husband, and I know I have chosen the right father for my children. “Thaaaank youuuu” — Elowen blows a winged kiss to the kind French lady.

How many figs can one little girl eat without being sick? One more, it would seem. “Latt one, mama, latt one!” — and the negotiations begin. She’s still peeling the supposed-to-be-last-one, when she adds “And latt one for dada!”, knowing too well that however many more daddy will have, she’ll get half of each.

Life is sweet.

Thank you for sharing this moment with me.

Julia