The Fruit of Love

For me, figs are the fruit of love. When I was little, my Mom encouraged my love for the short-seasoned fruit. She fed them to me when she was able to forage for them, barter for them, and occasionally find them at the fruit stands in our small valley town until we planted our own tree. She taught me how to identify the large dark leaves and spot the small velvety purple fruit hidden behind them. She taught me to pick them when supple, but not yet wrinkled. We ate them in the deepest heat of September, their honey-molasses sweetness was cloying on our tongues, the pop of the tiny seeds gave a satisfying crunch. Figs remind me of the richness in life.

Much later in life, I knew my husband was the man for me when he began courting me with figs. One day, after dating for several months, he showed up with a shy grin, and a small rumpled paper bag in his hand. Without ceremony, he set it before me, said he loved me, and left me to my surprise. I opened the bag and found my favorite Black Mission Figs. They were warm from the sun, and perfectly ripe. I inhaled their lightly sweet aroma, cracked one open and marveled at the beauty of the color palette, deep purple, to chartreuse, merlot flecked with pale yellow seeds, breathtaking. I ate that fig slowly, savoring the flood of memory, the delightful tickle of simple pleasure, the sensual texture on my tongue. I was head over heels.

Over the years, his gift of figs have come in green plastic baskets, recycled plastic bags, bare handfuls, small cardboard boxes, and on fine china. They have come in various stages of ripeness, and varieties like brown turkey and kodota. But for me, the best ones come in a rumpled brown paper bag, accompanied by a shy smile and they are the intense Black Mission variety. He brings them to me from all over, wherever he finds them, but my favorite are warm from the sun, and soft to the touch.