Under the Fig Tree

When I was a little girl my parents used to fly me down to my grandparent's house in Louisiana every summer (I started at age 6). I would meet my cousins there (see post "Family Matters") and we would spend two wonderful weeks swimming every day, eating snow cones in a thousand different flavors (Grandma called them sippy-owls), and being pampered by our grandparents. Those were some of the best days of my life.

My grandparents had many fruit trees and my grandfather had a garden from which, one year, he grew one of the biggest cucumbers the world has ever seen! It was so exciting to cut into that amazing vegetable (fruit?), so sweet and clean tasting. He saved it just for us and we loved it. I think it lasted us the entire two weeks and the salads my grandmother made with it were divine.

One fruit tree that always sticks out in my mind and reminds me of those days as kids was the fig tree. I didn't like figs, I don't think I had a legitimate reason; I just didn't like the sound of them. We did make it a hobby of picking them regularly when they were at their peak. Now that they both of my grandparents are gone and I don't get back to Louisiana quite as often, I regret not taking advantage of this sweet, juicy, fruit that you can pick right off the tree.

The pictures shown are from last summer. I had a wedding shower there thrown by my southern family. My uncle owns the house now but only stays there when he is in the area on business. The tree grew to enormous proportions and the figs were just about ready to pop. The skies were growing dark and stormy so just after this picture was taken, we worked hard and fast to gather up as many as we could before the rain caused them to burst and be inedible. Last summer I finally got over my fear of figs and ate one, savoring every last bite. I'm hoping that this is not the last time I get to eat a fresh fig off my grandparent's tree. Now that they are gone, I feel that my magical life there is fading away.