For those of us of a certain age, our first encounter with figs came not in life but in a movie theater when Oliver Reed used a fig, deftly cut open from the bottom, to help Alan Bates appreciate the pleasures of sensuality as he struggled with his attraction to Glenda Jackson in the 1969 classic, “Women in Love.” Watching Oliver Reed spread open that ripe fig was the height of eroticism to a young boy.
After the movie I rushed out and bought a basket of figs and marveled at their round fullness. The ones that were ripe had a heaviness that made my juvenile heart race with excitement. But to my young palate, used to simple fruits like apples and pears, figs were much too strong tasting.
I learned to appreciate figs when I lived in a house with a fig tree. I enjoyed watching the fruit slowly form, first as a small bulb attached to a twig, then bulging into a soft, round shape, expanding into a fullness that invited the touch.
In one of my most pleasurable, early food-moments I watched a fig ripen and picked it just as its nectar collected at the bottom. Bitting into its warm sweetness, I was hooked. My breakfast routine after that required only a cup of black coffee, a piece of dry toast, and a trip to the fig tree.
The local farmers market today was filled with several varieties of stone fruit, rhubarb, strawberries, and melons. Melons were everywhere. Red, orange, green, and white. I grabbed whatever I could carry, I couldn’t help myself.
I had two ideas for salads pop into my mind because it’s summer and I cannot be bothered with cooking just right now. I mean I can’t be bothered with Summer Main Dish cooking: ribs, burgers, whole chickens, you know what I mean. I’m happy just eating bowls of side salads right about now. Less time in the kitchen, you know. Something about being busy. And these salads are more ideas than anything else, really.
The conditions had to be perfect. We knew there was a ton of honey in the hive. June is the time to harvest, and it was already July. I recently had an unpleasant encounter with the bees when a photographer came to take some pictures of me, my garden, my birds and my bees. (It was late in the afternoon, I was nervous and, was he wearing after-shave? I’m not sure what set the bees off, but they got so feisty. The photographer was stung three times and a persistent bug managed its way into my hood and sent me running and yelping!) So, how to get back to the 