Because I love figs. Always have, always will.
One of my grandfathers, an epic gardener of roses and vegetables, flowers and fruits, grew figs. Eating mass quantities of fresh-from-the-tree figs is was a favourite summer pastime during childhood.
That was a distant time, in a very different place. Unfortunately, the harsher New England climate isn't conducive to fig trees growing in the ground. Rumour has it that they can be over-wintered indoors.
Therefore, a couple of months ago, I made a huge investment in a fig tree already laden with 17 embryonic figs. Unsure what these untested Northern birds would do if they saw this unfamiliar new fruit growing on one of my decks, I took the precaution of placing the tree in the sunny screened porch. And waited for the magic to happen.
The first fig to ripen suffered a terrible fate. It tumbled to the floor, unbeknownst to me, and rolled behind the tiny rocking chair(in which my mother rocked me during my infancy...) By the time I found it, the following day, it was dried out and inedible. My heart was broken.
Every day since then, I've watched the remaining 16 fruits, all staying resolutely green--till last week, when a couple of them swelled and began changing colour.
Curbing my impatience to eat a fresh-from-the-tree fig again, I waited as long as I could. But this morning, like Eve, I had to taste, the temptation was too great.
So I plucked.
And I ate.
And it was Good!