My urban orchard lives in the shade of a jacaranda tree so harvests are delayed due to the deprivation of sunlight. Here I have been waiting for the figs to ripen. At the end of last year, that is the beginning of our summer, a few fruit from the previous season’s wood (a ‘breba’ crop) teased my palette and promised a bumper crop this year.
Yesterday I had three figs for breakfast. One was just ripe; juicy but bland. One was at its peak and perfect. The last was past its prime; split, caramelised by the sun and tasted like candy. Too sweet but it reminded me that a glut of figs may be dehydrated or made into jam though so far I have far too many volunteers to wolf them down fresh to think of preserving them.
Today I picked six. Not all of them were perfect; I have to share my figs with birds and possums and other wild life that favours them. Alas they seem to be everyone’s favourite. Fortunately my two largest trees (both Black Genoa, mother and daughter) have produced a couple of hundred fruit so there should be enough for everyone. I am happy if I can go out and eat my fill every day for three months or so. Fortunately they don’t ripen all at once. Other figs in the orchard will provide until May.