Gettin' Figgy With It

The first few years our backyard was smaller and it was on the other side of the fence. One of the neighbor boys tended to it when the time came, selling the bounty for rent money. There was even that one time Fuckin' Rick left a smoldering log at its base all night. The still quite prominent three-foot scar 'tis but a flesh wound that in no way hinders the giant, eighty-odd year old, absurdly prolific Mission Fig Tree.

Eventually, the husband expanded the borders of our fence to include the Tree, which became the perfect centerpiece for our outdoor living space. Or so we thought. Life with the Tree is great during the winter, when the branches are bald and cast interesting shadows across the yard. But when those first baby buds begin to emerge come spring, our relationship with the Tree takes a turn. Personally, I quite enjoy the remodeling process of what appears to be a naked, harmless tree converting itself into a fig factory. Alas, for the husband, it only marks the onset of this year's battle with his nemesis. He likes to call it the "droppin' shit season." Mostly he's talking about the leaves and the fruit; but sometimes he just means the bird shit, of the exceedingly sticky, purple fig seed variety.

With every season comes the threat that "THIS is the year I'm cutting that bleeping thing down!" Which is predictably countered with threats of divorce -- and wouldn't that be a silly reason to separate -- or promises to tie myself to the trunk -- and wouldn't he be sorry if he chain sawed his wife along with our aged, defenseless Tree.

See, the real tragedy is neither of us, in fact, like to eat the figs. They're sort of bland, and a bit icky. And let's be frank, how many hundreds of seeds does one two-inch piece of fruit really need? (Has anyone ever witnessed those seeds becoming trees? I mean, baby fig trees are delivered by stork, right?) Then there's the parade of critters that use the Tree as their personal cafeteria: raccoons, opossums, ten different kinds of bird, and, you know, other stuff, worse stuff. Consequently, the season pretty much means we're a couple of fig pushers. This part I quite enjoy, actually. People get so excited over a few strawberry baskets full of fresh Mission Figs; it's kind of awesome.

Still, unrelenting fig pushing is never sufficient. There are always more figs: more figs on the Tree, more figs on the ground, on our shoes/staining the carpet, more figs in the the trash. Truthfully, this never used to bother me. I mean, you know, the Tree is beautiful and it's fun to give away fruit; but the Tree is also mean. The leaves are scratchy and cause a rash on one's arms after harvest. There's this vicious, stingy milk in the stem and peel of the fruit that literally burns one's flesh if one does not use protection. The Tree does not want to make it easy, for anyone. So, the subsequent waste was all right, until it finally dawned on me that these figs are FOOD, man! What in the local, organic-loving world are we doing letting this free food go to waste?

"Hence," she declared, "This is the year we'll learn to love the figs!"

The project began the moment those green touches began to speckle the winter branches. At first, it was a little inkling in the back of my mind, a nudge, a poke. The husband casually mentioned how much he actually enjoyed those dried figs in that one salad at that one restaurant. Check! A friend sends me a simple preserves recipe she's used with her own backyard crops. Check! Then, the Tree filled out and the figs inserted their own color splashes in the yard.

The next thing I know, it's here: Fig Week.

All my big talk of being ready for it this time is coming to literal fruition. For the last several days, my culinary world has revolved exclusively around this one-woman production -- from picking to prepping to preserving. Fig after fig, after fig. I don't think I've ever had so much fun in my kitchen, it's fig-tastic! My first ever attempt at making jam was a mild success. Nine half-pint jars of runnier than expected, yet simply gorgeous, deeply purple Drunken Fig Preserves are quickly being spoken for amongst all those fig lovin' friends. Baking sheets dotted with shriveling fig halves have occupied all oven real estate for three days and counting.

For all this pleasure derived from food production, not to mention the bragging about it on Facebook, the husband and I have yet to actually taste the final results (I know, I know, rookie mistake, always sample the goods, whatever). There's a bit of trepidation in the air. What if, after all the fuss, what if we still don't like the taste of the figs?

Well, no matter. At least there are a few lessons to be gleaned from the experience:

1. Whatever the form -- fresh, dried or jammed -- a fig pusher is always well received.
2. Kitchen food production from backyard harvest is tremendously enjoyable and never a waste of time.
3. One does not rush a drying fig.