To Figs

[Today's post is a guest writer, my brother, Tom Byrne. He knows a lot about good writing and food and I'm a little jealous I did not think of this topic, but I'm so glad he did.]

Every time I see or hear mention of the word figs I think of my grandmother. She would make the most amazing fig preserves and my mom would go see her and would bring me back a jar. Food was my grandmother’s love language and you could not feel more loved or love her more than to enjoy something she made for you to eat.

The recipe was simple: 6 pounds of figs, 6 pounds of sugar. Cook them down until the sugar is melted into a dark syrup. Place in mason jars and wait as long as you can hold out - weeks preferably. When you can't stand it any longer, pop the lid and spread on a toasted bagel. I don't know of anything that really tastes better.

So every year I go down to the tree on the side of a neighbor's garage and pick as many as I can get before the birds descend. They are so ripe you just have to touch them and they come off in your hand. Some years I put them up - some years their isn't enough rain and I just eat what I can get on my granola or just right off the tree.

The fig has a delicate taste when fresh - like eating a flower.  But when I open that jar and smell and taste that sweet smokey fig, I'm transported to Lafayette, sitting at my grandmother's table with her at the stove cooking something that will warm me.