Autumn is when we like to go away. The hectic holiday season is over; beaches and restaurants all around the Med are empty of us sun-crazed Northerners; the sun, who has mostly exhausted her heat in the summer, is now kinder, more gentle. This is when everyone without kids in school goes away, so we board a plane to a Mediterranean shore with the very young, the retired and the gay. Our holidays are always flavoured with figs – late season, still warm from the summer sun.
We have strong memories of a tree on a rural road on a Greek island. It was laden with the most amazingly sweet figs, as many as you could stomach. We would drive there especially.
We remember tearing ourselves from work after an exhausting summer to head to the Balearic Islands. We were greeted in a hotel car park by a huge fig tree. We parked our little rental car in its shade and took our first bite of the summer – it was then and there that our holiday started.
We all have our little milestones in the year, those recurring events that make us pause and think. For us it’s always autumn, and it is always flavoured with figs. It is when the Jewish year starts; it is when the Day of Atonement falls; it is when we got married. All those sweet and serious life moments are connected by the honeyed sweetness, the resiny undertone, the giving flesh and the crunch of seeds in a fig.