Figs

I love fresh figs.  Not only do they taste delicious, they also give me solace in the later days of summer, when my subconscious starts reminding me that this favorite season of mine won't last forever.

I used to gather fresh figs from a neighbor's house.  This house sat vacant for several years, and my father-in-law was keeping an eye on it.  He encouraged me to take what I wanted from the abundant yield from several fig trees behind the house.  Someone is now living in this house at least part-time.  I suppose I still could sneak back there for figs.  However, I was glad when a guilt-free alternative presented itself at last weekend's farmers market on the square.  I bought the last container of figs from one of the vendors.

All week I've been enjoying my figs.  They are one of my favorite things to add to my morning oatmeal.  I sprinkle my oatmeal with cinnamon, drizzle on some honey, slice fresh figs on top, and add a few chopped nuts.  Rocket fuel!

Earlier this week I tried a new recipe that I just knew was going to be a do-again: pizza with figs, prosciutto, and brie.

The roasted pepper salad on the side was excellent, too.

Yesterday I went old-school on some of my bike food. I had four fresh figs, but you can only see three of them here because one got squished in my jersey pocket before I could eat it. I hid that one in my hand for the photo because it didn't look too appetizing.

Ironically, this ties into a paragraph from "The Rider" by Tim Krabbe, an excellent stream-of-consciousness book about pro cycling:

"I cycle over to the car and put three figs in my back pocket. Or should I make it four? Or five? Ballast, I never eat more than two during a race, the others will just end up glistening with brown sweat.

Ballast? But if I think those few extra grams are going to get in my way, I can always eat them, can't I?"