Fig-ure of beauty


Once upon a time, there was a little girl who hated figs. Even when the backyard tree was covered, she turned up her nose to the tantalizing fruit and its brown, poo-like preserves. Because, in summary, she was stupid.

Canning figs

It took almost forty years, but that little brat grew up to become a proper fig junkie, begging every farmer she saw for an ETA on the crop’s first appearance at market.

Last year’s drought wreaked havoc on the local harvest, so it’s been two years since I’ve been able to dig on some serious figs.

The word “withdrawal” comes to mind.

All of that changed on Saturday, with table after table offering delectable figgy treats. I might have bought a few. And by few, I mean six pounds.

Fig jam is a cinch to make, and five pounds of fruit quickly produced eighteen half-pints. Not only are the preserves great on bread, but they make a delicious warm topping for ice cream or side dressing for goat cheese.

That extra pound of fruit will be wonderful served with fresh melon, mint, and a little prosciutto for hubby. (Thanks to David Tanis for this and so many other simple recipes that frequently remind me why cooking for loved ones is a pleasure.)

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