I must be one of the luckiest, food lovin' ladies in the world right now. Even though the days are getting shorter, which makes me sad, and the temperatures have cooled off dramatically- especially at night- which also makes me sad, there are now ripe figs.
Figs have long been my favorite fruit. My Mom has an incredibly high producing tree in Maryland. So, if I time my trips to see her right, I get my fill. Sadly for my fig obsession, it has been years since I have been there for the late summer harvest. Needless to say, they do not survive the winters in Colorado.
All around our house in France are fig trees. There are yellow figs growing wild, there are brown figs that are cultivated. They grow out of rock outcrops, along lakes, on the side of the highways- they are everywhere. They are just getting to that sticky, sweet stage of perfect ripeness. I am trying to dissuade the children from picking the figs underripe. They can hardly contain themselves- scaling an idyllic climbing tree and picking fruit? Well, I can hardly blame them for proudly bringing me samples of their daily fig catch. As a true fig snob, I just can't eat them under-ripe, though. Oh well, I toss them into the yard where I know the wild boar will clean them up as soon as the sun goes down. This weekend, I plan to grill some figs stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in proscuitto. For this evening, all I had was blue cheese to go with the figs, and more rose, of course.