Monday, August 27, 2007

Figs In Flagrante

If figs were sex, the ones available in Canada would be the equivalent of your Wednesday night appointment with a spouse of 20 years. You're not necessarily going to skip it, but let's face it, it's not really what you dream about.

In August, in Spain, the figs are those of your most indecent fantasies. Voluptuous and drippingly sweet. The parting of the dense purple interior, pure eros. Enough to make a single girl melt a little.

On my daily walk through the market, the figs are lined up in the stalls like dancing girls waiting to be picked: the lithe dark ones within reach of every wallet and the plumper green at twice the price. I buy a selection every morning, enough for the day. Figs, like women, don't wait well. Nor, God forbid, should they ever be exposed to the cold.

If, by dinner time, there are still a few available, I lie them in quarters on a bed of baby arugula, pair each with a piece of queso de cabra (a Spanish goat cheese, more firm and to the point than a French chevre), marry the whole with some thick balsamic vinegar and finish with leisurely streams of rosemary honey. Then I swoon a little, trying not to spill my rioja as I go.


Jasona said...

I almost understand how you feel about your figs... I experienced them in Italy for the first time and they blew my tastebuds.

Fabulous writing (many of the same comments on Facebook) and I hope to read more about your exciting travels and explorations. Live and write a little each day I say... :)

Marketa said...

These figs sound like sex in your mouth. I'm rushing out tomorrow and buying out the store...

With this blog I believe you've stumbled upon your next career - one that marries your love of food and your incredible talent for writing.

I look forward to more posts. xo

stephen said...

At this point I will settle for some Wednesday night scheduled relations. Where did you say I could buy them in Canada!? Keep making me hungry.