Sigh. I love figs. I mean I LOVE figs. Maybe not 81 of them, like the pile pictured here that I picked up around the patio this morning, but a few good fresh, ripened figs from a tree is a joy to me. Num num num. Num.
The fig trees in our our backyard produce thousands of fruit each spring and summer, but whatever the cause for the failure none of it is ever evar ripe. Don’t let the darker ones in the bunch above fool you, they are all dry, tasteless inedible greenwaste that drop with a plop to the patio thanks to gravity or perhaps with a little help from the squirrels who sometimes nibble them before doing a squirrel version of “Ack, patooey!” and droppin’ ’em like their hot… or more appropriately not, as in ripe. Or even remotely tasty.
And every morning throughout this time of year I have a new chore to my list in going out and picking up the pieces. Today was a record landfall (probably to be broken tomorrow), so before I pitched them into the green bin I assembled them for a group pic and to lament being the fig-loving butt of mother nature’s sense of humor.
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