I grew up spoilt by a bounty of free, home-grown food, from vegetables of all sorts depending on the season, to eggs and poultry, to fruits in the summer and fall months – strawberries in late May, then cherries in June, and plums, grapes and tiny green, soft, jammy figs later on in the summer. The bounty decreasing a bit afterwards, giving us some pomegranates and nespole in the fall, with persimmons closing the dances in December.
Figs. Those figs are so stuck in my memory. There were two fig trees in grandma’s garden, one by the barn hosting the farming tools, and one in the middle of the hens’ patch. I would climb those trees with a latter, a little plastic bowl in one hand. I knew what to do, not quite sure if someone taught me or if it was somehow ingrained in my genes. I would test the fruits carefully, pressing them to feel the ripeness, and gently detach only the soft ones. I would descend the latter only when the bowl was full, and most of the time, there were more left on the branches.