I, Fig
The figs have arrived.

And I am now suffering from Fig Fatigue, a term I've borrowed from Friend A, who also suffers from Hearing Too Much About The Figs Fatigue. Aside from work, the figs have taken over my life for the past week or so.  Blogging time has been usurped by figging time. It's insane.

I've mentioned before that I have a fig tree in my backyard. And by 'tree', I mean a giant, humongous, really, really ridiculously large monstrosity. It's huge. I cut it back last year, only for it to come back at least twice as big this year. It's everywhere. I cannot escape it. I'm pretty sure it controls the tide, rather than the moon. The gravitational pull of the Fig Tree has to be the missing link to what would make time travel possible.

It's a really big tree. With lots of figs.

Last year the birds ate all the figs from the tree before I could get to the figs. I was very sad, and vowed this year to not let the birds have the figs. Those figs are mine. For the past couple of months as figs began to appear on the tree, I've kept careful watch over them. I checked on them daily, anxious for them to ripen as I watched them so that I could grab them from the tree before the birds became wise to the ripe figs. As I watched, so did the birds. I knew this would be a duel down to the very end.

Figs. Will. Be. Mine.

Now, the history of figs is as such: In the beginning, Adam and Eve wore fig leaves as clothes. Several thousand years later, my Mamaw and Papaw had a fig tree in their yard. From this tree they would gather figs and make them into fig preserves. It became a family tradition, and something the kids and grandkids grew to love. Anytime I would get a jar of these fig preserves, I would make it last as long as possible, knowing that once the figs are gone for that year it could be a long while before I could get my next fig fix. It was an addiction.

These jars of figs were like gold. Brown, gooey, sugary gold.

Many people do not know what a fig is, and are only familiar with the term 'fig' by way of the Fig Newton. This, faithful readers, is a tragedy. For when put in preserved form, the fig is an amazing delicacy. Sure, there are likely 108 other things one can do with a fig. But in my family, we preserve them. Put on toast or biscuits, you will think you are eating a little piece of heaven.

Brown, gooey, sugary heaven.

Well, one day my Mamaw and Papaw no longer lived in the house with the fig tree. And consequently, there were no more figs and no more preserves. My entire family went into fig withdrawals for many years.

We need our figs.

Jump ahead a few years, and I become an adult of sorts. I buy a house. It coincidentally comes with a fig tree. And now, after this fig-less era in the history of my family, I will be the bearer of fig preserves. The torch has been passed.

I, Fig.

So, after consulting my Mamaw, the Matriarch of Figs, my mom and I collected all we needed to know about the figs. I continued to watch the figs, waiting for them to ripen. Mamaw said it would be July, but I wasn't sure I could trust that. They looked like they could go at any minute. But sure enough, last week the first of the figs became ripe. Mamaw knows her figs.

I spent last Friday night and Saturday morning picking the first batch of figs. Now, if you've never experienced figs or a fig tree, let me give you a brief glimpse of what it's like. From afar, a fig tree is a beautiful thing. Tall, green, full of large leaves and bronze figs. A work of art, if you will. However, once you get up in the tree, it is quite possibly one of the most disgusting thing I've ever experienced.

Fig leaves are sticky. And by 'sticky' I mean that everything you touch sticks to you, and consequently anything you touch after that will also stick to you. Plus, the stickiness is really, really ridiculously itchy. And it's itchy in a "want-to-scratch-my-entire-body-with-steel-wool-then-roll-around-on-some-sandpaper" kind of way. Once the itching starts, it doesn't stop until you flee the tree and immediately deposit yourself into a hot shower.

But, to get good figs you have to embrace the sticky itchy, and get all up in the tree. As well as endure the other unpleasantries associated with what goes on in a fig tree. The afore mentioned birds tend to take up residence amongst the tree, waiting for what they see as 'their' figs to ripen. Hence, the sticky leaves are not only covered with fig tree stickiness, but there's also a nice layer of bird bomb on many of the leaves. I can only suggest that if you should ever decide to pick figs from a tree, keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, and try to keep the branches from hitting you in the face. Otherwise, you'll be sorry. And don't say I didn't warn you.

So, when I can stand the icky, itchy disgustingness no longer, and I manage to fill a bucket full of figs by climbing all over the tree and pulling branches down to get the higher figs, it is time for that hot shower mentioned above.  Fortunately, the shower does the trick. It provides immediate relief from the evils of sticky fig goo. Refreshed and sticky no more, it's on to the next step.

My mom and I then wash all the figs, first in water and baking soda to rid the figs themselves of the stickiness, then again in just water. Once we have clean figs, then comes fig grooming, to remove any unwanted fig shrapnel. Finally, once the figs have been deemed clean and pretty, they are put in pots and introduced to their new best friend: sugar.

And by 'sugar' I mean pounds of sugar. Literally.

In it's preserved form, the common jar of figs is likely two parts fig to eight parts sugar. This concoction stands for several hours, then it is heated over several more hours, then poured into jars. If all is done well, each jar will seal itself tightly to the sound of a 'pop'. And there you have it: fig preserves.

And by 'preserve' I mean these things will literally last forever before opening a jar, and will also likely survive any future nuclear holocaust. The obscene amount of sugar in the preserve concoction could probably mummify a small child for several centuries.

But, they are soooooooooo good. I must say, having never made fig preserves before and having only eaten the fig preserved perfection made by my Mamaw, the figs we made this week turned out really good. Brown, gooey, and sugary- just like they should be.

It's a lot of work, but it's so worth it.

So, the figs have taken over my life for the past week. One batch of figs, from picking to jarring, takes about twelve to sixteen hours and must be done almost all at once. Some of the sugar-soaking process can take place overnight. But once a fig is picked from the tree, it waits for no one. 

It. Must. Be. Preserved.

Fig Jar Count To Date = 50 jars, from three batches of figs, with at least one more batch to go.
 
I, Fig.

C.T.