Sunday, June 26, 2005
Morality and the Fig Tree
As I stand at my kitchen sink, I can witness the magic of the seasons emerge from a fig tree in our neighbors' sideyard. I watched this spring as a profusion of chartreuse teardrops appeared, then expanded like tiny balloons. For weeks I've eagerly wondered when the first figs would begin to soften and blush lavender. I didn't need The Farmer's Almanac to tell me. A few days ago, I spied a mockingbird rustling in the branches of the tree. By yesterday morning, a band of bluejays, cardinals and mockingbirds was locked in noisy competition with two squirrels for the fruit.
In epicurian matters, there are few things I love more than figs. My mouth waters just contemplating prosciutto and figs drizzled with honey, or a tantalizing appetizer of french bread topped with bleu cheese and carmelized figs. After months of anticipation, culminating with the feeding frenzy outside my window yesterday, I could no longer restrain my curiosity or desire. At dusk, I opened our driveway gate, circumnavigated the long fence that protects our boys and dogs from the street, and plucked a half-dozen soft figs for dessert. (I was relieved at the cover of semi-darkness, and ashamed by my relief.)
But oh my goodness, the figs! They were succulent perfection.
Am I trying to alleviate my guilt or your judgment by mentioning that our neighbors' house stands empty? With no one there to tend to the harvest, I tell myself that I'm only shortchanging the squirrels and the birds. To be honest, though, my integrity seems to be paying a price, too. Next year, when a new family has taken up residence in the house, I imagine my conscience will regain the upper hand, and I'll watch with envy as the small creatures of the neighborhood come to feast on the first figs of summer.
In epicurian matters, there are few things I love more than figs. My mouth waters just contemplating prosciutto and figs drizzled with honey, or a tantalizing appetizer of french bread topped with bleu cheese and carmelized figs. After months of anticipation, culminating with the feeding frenzy outside my window yesterday, I could no longer restrain my curiosity or desire. At dusk, I opened our driveway gate, circumnavigated the long fence that protects our boys and dogs from the street, and plucked a half-dozen soft figs for dessert. (I was relieved at the cover of semi-darkness, and ashamed by my relief.)
But oh my goodness, the figs! They were succulent perfection.
Am I trying to alleviate my guilt or your judgment by mentioning that our neighbors' house stands empty? With no one there to tend to the harvest, I tell myself that I'm only shortchanging the squirrels and the birds. To be honest, though, my integrity seems to be paying a price, too. Next year, when a new family has taken up residence in the house, I imagine my conscience will regain the upper hand, and I'll watch with envy as the small creatures of the neighborhood come to feast on the first figs of summer.
2 Comments:
As one who has foraged for blackberries on untended public land, I feel that I am participating with the small animals in enjoying a bounty that would otherwise be wasted. I wonder why you feel that your integrity is compromised when you do likewise? Yes, the figs are on private property, but there is no one living there who will pick them. I'd understand your feeling guilty if the figs were not perishable, or if picking them would harm the tree, but neither of those things is true.
Maybe you and Dad could make jam from those figs, and you could present some of it to your new neighbors next year. If you did that, they might be thrilled to share the figs with you!
What?! And share?! ;o) No, seriously, it's a good idea, if I can only gather enough figs. This morning there was an honest-to-goodness squirrel fight on the fence. Two of them chased the third, who has in the middle of breakfast, butting it with their heads until it dropped the fig and ran away.
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