FIGS: A ROMANCE
Image of quartered figs
By Julia Hristodoulou
A diaristic reflection on figs as a portal for memory.
In the village, my dad's cousin Gonas casually picked us a few burgundy-purple figs off their tree which resides within a patch of wild farmland. I was breaking my 21 years of fig absence, where figs had only existed as a slightly intimidating, vaguely foreign fruit that my parents enjoyed from time to time, back when they grew on my respective grandparents’ backyards on trees in houses that were now sold. Without giving it much thought, I sunk my teeth into the petite teardrop-shaped fruit, awakening to a revelation of flavour that was previously dormant in me.
It is my first fig, and I am in love.
Firstly, I’m shocked. Why had no one told me about these? Why had no one even uttered a word of their sweetness, of their delicate and soft nature? Their insides are a blood pink, lined with white veins of seeds that are patterned in spirals reaching towards a gaping centre. Beautiful and sophisticated. Their texture is thick, yet crunchy and moist. It is like a jam that has been manufactured by Mother Earth herself. It tastes of what I have longed for all these years without knowing. It is small but has a nourishing depth.
I sometimes recall foods that signify timeline shifts within my life. It was September and I was in northern Greece in the village my dad was born: Serres, near Thessaloniki. The sun illuminated the lush greenery that surrounded us. There were mountains in the distance upholding a wisdom connected to my bones.
The dusk of summer had slowly passed. The party was over. Yet for me the dawn of autumn was a signifier of a great leap in my life. It was a fig’s golden hour, and it was also mine.
This was not my sole romance with figs.
After spending the day roaming a Parisian flea market, my body was riddled with fatigue and hunger. I stumbled upon a boulangerie patisserie, residing proudly on the corner of a street, on the ground floor beneath layers of apartments with elegant Juliette-style balconies. The boulangerie carried a simple yet tasteful exterior. A mint green shade hung above the storefront stating ‘Viennoiseries Confiseries’—a sign of the good stuff within.
As I entered, I was met with a decadent display of pastries and in my stupor, could hardly process them individually. Knowing my past love for the fig, I spontaneously decided to take with me a little fig tart ... tarte aux figues. The lady behind the counter wrapped the tart in paper patterned with playful images of strawberries, figs, nectarines and peaches; adorable. As I walked down the footpath with my fruit-adorned parcel in one hand, I felt a surge of uplifting energy previously unknown to me. I was gleaming, and people were gleaming right back at me, as though the tart carried a magical vibration that had touched us equally. I almost started skipping!
I sat down among the trees of a local park and unwrapped the tart tenderly. It shimmered in the sun, rays reflecting off the glazed top. Halves of burgundy figs peeked above the surface, luring me in. After my first bite, I found myself in ecstasy. I was joyous, shocked at the bliss, bewildered by the simplistic yet decadent flavours. The tart was sweet and not forceful, slightly savoury and buttery. When infused with the glazed figs, the layers intertwined in perfect harmony. The pastry was art. It was the best thing I have ever eaten. It took my favourite fruit and transformed it.
My love affair with figs reminded me of the ephemeral nature of blissful experiences. They arrive, show us what life is all about, and then leave, time moves on. But just because they are temporary, does not mean they do not add deep flavour to one’s life. They give us hints for where to next locate warm feelings similar to the memory. These fruits offer support for digestive, gut and menstrual health. I’ll never forget my first fig.