Figs

Once again it is that time of the year when the bounty of our two fig trees has peaked and the morning ritual of removing splatted, half eaten and over ripe fruit from sidewalks and patio has become my daily chore. I like figs, don't get me wrong but the superfluity, especially this year with an abundance of rain followed by brilliant sunny days has resulted in a crop sufficient to feed not a family of squirrels but the entire species.

I've tried giving them away, to the point my neighbors cringe when they see me and I have even resorted to accosting total strangers passing by, but to little avail. The figs far outnumber even the kindness of strangers. Maybe that is because figs--though they are the fruit of the gods according to the Greeks and Romans have a fairly limited culinary range. Some biblical scholars hold that the forbidden fruit was not an apple, but a fig and I can see why it was forbidden. There are just so many dishes one can make and trust me, we could make fig preserves from now till Fall and not exhaust our supply.

I am not at all averse to sharing our provender with the squirrels and the crows who stuff themselves silly this time of year--it is their right to cadge as much as they like but I do wish they would be a bit more tidy. It's the beetles, wasps and flies that buzz around the sickly sweet juice that otherwise mar a peaceful interlude in the backyard.

The neighbor who shares a fence with me over which one of these fig trees hangs eyes me warily as I approach and apologize again for the fallen fruit in his yard. It's not that I haven't been merciless in cutting back the branches. I have hacked away each year with renewed vigor, ignoring all rules regarding proper pruning in the hope that my efforts would be rewarded with a nice manageable crop the next season. But to my dismay the fig trees insist on spiting me by growing even more branches and taller ones beyond my reach.

Once upon a time I had a similar issue with a Persimmon tree that grew in the backyard adjacent to a cherry tree that barely survived in its shadow. My significant other likes Persimmons and the dogs did as well even though it was not good for them to eat the fruit. I, however, am not a fan. I like them less than figs as a matter of record. Perhaps my animus toward the tree was the cause, I cannot honestly say, but one year it simply did not bear fruit. Technically it did not bear leaves either--it was in a word, dead. Whether this was my doing I'll never know but for two years after its demise my SO refused to accept its death. She held out for rebirth to the point the tree assumed an identity akin to the Monty Python parrot. Not dead, just resting.

The good news is that once i was allowed to take a chain saw to the remains of the Persimmon the foundling Cherry took off and in just a few years became a glorious specimen that heralds Spring with its pinkish white blossoms for weeks on end. One life ends, another begins.

At this point you might well be asking what is the point of this jeremiad? Well there are several. First, be careful what fruit trees you plant--the little buggers grow up and soon you are the proud parents of crops you cannot give away fast enough. Second, never plant a fruit tree which yields something you don't absolutely adore. I survived a Summer at a writer's workshop living on mayonnaise sandwiches and trout that I caught in a nearby stream. It turns out trout like scrunchy white bread. I ate trout fried, broiled, sauteed, breaded, planked, steamed, and poached to the point I cannot bear the sight of it today. The mere thought brings on waves of nausea. I still like a fig now and again, but I limit myself to a handful every year.

Last, if you must succumb to the lure of growing your own fruit, consider something that does not turn from ripe and delicious to gross and sticky in under 30 seconds. Figs have no sense of decorum or respect for proper maturity. They sprint from marble size to baseball overnight and then hurl themselves to the ground like fruit Kamikaze. I've begged the squirrels and crows to clean up the mess but they have declined, preferring their fruit fresh off the tree. What's a poor farmer to do? Anyone for Figgie Pudding?