savory

Nick and I are very lucky when it comes to figs. We ate figs bathed in olive oil and ribbons of parmigiano with our aunt and uncle on a hot August day, and that set it off. Our annual love affair with figs sparked, just as September began and the summer heat hung low over the neighborhood. We almost forgot this year, but, as a I say, we are lucky.

The other day, as we were parking the car, our neighbor leaned over the fence into the empty lot he owns (where we park).

"Hey you kids!"

At first we thought we were in trouble. I glanced around. Then I noticed the tree he was hanging onto as he beckoned us. A fine fig tree, with wide leaves like the palms of hands spreading shade over the yard. Tall too, reaching up to the second story of the red brick row house beside it.

"Do you kids like figs? Commere an eat summa dees figs. Dare crazy!"

Eyes wide, we moved toward the old man with an outstretched fist full of plump fruit. Figs here? In Brooklyn? And they looked good, too.

"Dare like dis every yeeah. Once day staht, you gotta pick 'em ten times a day. Take some mowa! Take some mowa! Reach up dare, see that one? Reach that!"

With the old man's keen direction, Nick and I picked all the figs we could reach from our side of the fence. Our neighbor made us promise to come back and get more anytime, preferably every day.

When we got home, I washed them and set them out on the counter. They looked perfect; they smelled perfect. Figs a la BQE, I thought. How are they going to taste? I cautiously sliced one open and took a small bite. Nick popped the whole thing in his mouth. You can see the ones we didn't eat standing up at the counter in the photo above, sliced with some homegrown sun gold tomatoes from our aunt's garden, bathed in olive oil. Luckily, we happened to have a small wedge of parmigiano, too.