This morning, after hanging out my laundry, I heard someone calling my name. So, I opened the window to see my landlady down below (I’m one story up) holding a plate piled high with figs. She said, “Do you want these or do you already have some?” I asked, with awe and barely repressed glee, “Are they figs?” When she replied in the affirmative I all but ran out the door and down the stairs to accept her gift.

Finally some figs! Our figs this year did not produce much at all and what little they did produce was eaten by the birds. I could hardly begrudge the poor birds who had no water to drink and thus got their liquids from fruit, but they could have left some for me.

As you can see from the picture, she gave me two kinds - brown and white. We actually have 3 kinds out at the “ranch” - brown, white, and a very tiny, very sweet black one that is good for drying.

Before coming to Italy I had never tasted a fresh fig. Dried figs, yes, but fresh figs, no. My grandfather grew figs in his backyard, but they had all succumbed to some disease or other before I was born and thus, no figs for me.

Still, there must be something in the blood that makes one yearn for figs - an Italian gene or something. To satisfy my cravings, I had bought a small fig tree - actually one for me and one for my Dad since he likes figs too. I pampered it and it was green and healthy, although still small, and I had hoped that in a few years I might get some figs from it. Then one day, I decided to move to Italy where the figs were abundant. Well, that was not the real reason, although it did factor into my decision (just kidding). Anyway, since I moved here and am now surrounded by fig trees, I left my baby fig in the care of my parents who are giving it the loving care that it deserves.

I had always heard that figs were hard to grow and that one had to be careful of the weather, that they would die during the winter, etc. That may be so in the States, but here the things grow like weeds. I can’t tell you how many I’ve seen growing in the cracks of the pavement. Plus, there’s a house up the street that has a full-size fig growing in a pot outside. The pot looks too small for the fig, but somehow it perseveres.

As for it being too cold, we’re 727 meters (2385 feet) above sea level and are subject to cold winters and huge amounts of snow. (To give you some idea, when O was born, the midwife had to climb in the window because there was too much snow to get in the door.) If I hadn’t seen for myself the hardy fig trees growing everywhere here, I wouldn’t have believed it considering what I thought I knew about the fragility of figs.

Did you know that figs are among the first crops cultivated by humans? And, of course, as we all know, fig leaves were the preferred dress of Adam and Eve.

They are a member of the mulberry family which is evident from their leaves. And the fruit of the fig is not a fruit at all. It is, in fact, a flower.

Figs are a good source of flavonoids and polyphenols (in other words, antioxidants). They’re also high in fiber, potassium and calcium. 8 ounces of fresh figs contain 167.83 calories. (That’s about 26 calories for a medium-sized fig and around 15 for a small fig.)

So, today I did something that’s both historical and good for my health. I ate some figs. (Yes, I tore into these babies as soon as I got them in the door.)

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