Confession of a Fig Thief.

Figs. From a fig thief.

It was a cool, sunny, breezy August afternoon. So cool and so nearly crisp that it felt more like a fine Autumn day than the last week of August. Mimi and I sat on the swing on the front deck for a few moments until she begged to be set free to crawl on the lawn. Once I liberated her, I noticed the neighbor’s fig tree was covered with luscious, ripe fruit. Dark, plump figs that were waiting to be picked.

Waiting to be picked by me.

No neighbors in sight. Just me. Mimi. And the figs.

I plucked six in less than a minute.

Ran into the house with my load and dropped them off on the kitchen counter.

The husband asked: “Where’s the baby?”

Oh. The baby. I ran back outside.

Mimi was crawling rapidly toward the pavement. The though of scraped knees gnawed at me. I picked her up and casually walked back toward the front door. Looking around occasionally to see if anyone had noticed that Mimi’s mother had stolen from the neighbors.

No one in sight.

Would you have done any differently?

Some interesting fig facts:

The fig tree is the symbol of abundance, of fertility, of sweetness. Birds love figs. You can cover your fig tree with netting to fend off the birds. But probably not me. Fig trees thrive in temperate climates. Temperate = hot and sunny. Norway = no fig trees.

Tagged as: fig, food, fruit, thief