Mama Says Monday: For The Love of Figs

I’ve talked a lot about growing up on the farm. My father built our home where his grandfather had had his home. I think I heard that their home had burnt down. At any rate, we had fig trees by our house and down the lane. One of the trees, the one closest to the house, was huge. We had the little brown sugar figs, at least, that’s what my father called them. Other people had bigger purple figs, but I don’t think they made the best preserves, because everybody always wanted ours.

Before summer came, a lot of people would remind my mother or father that they would like some figs if they were plentiful. So, when the figs started to ripen, we would pick figs until my mother had put up all the fig preserves that our family needed, and then it was on. My parents would call someone and schedule them to arrive every two or three days to pick figs. 

As I recall, there were about seven trees. As I said before, these trees were fairly large. Adults could pick figs from the lower limbs while standing on the ground under the trees. Now some of these folks would only want a potful or two. But most would take all they could get. Most of them would go straight home and get started making fig preserves. (And by the way, no one was charged for the figs, they were free.)

Now some would bring their children to help pick figs, but some of the older ladies would come, knowing that Ercelle and Betty’s kids would help them. Of course, we were free labor, and were expected to help everyone, even the ones with kids. And there were no ladders taken to the trees to pick from. No, that was what us kids were for. We had to climb up into the trees to pick the ones out of reach. It was here that we honed our tree climbing skills. We could climb those trees like monkeys, swinging from limb to limb, holding our buckets and picking figs.

Now let me explain something about fig trees. Apparently, some folks have a reaction to fig trees/leaves like they do with okra. It would make them itch. My mother had to buy lots of rubbing alcohol during this time, because people would be itching after picking the figs, and would rub their hands and arms down with alcohol to try to stop the itching. This malady didn’t seem to bother the Watson kids. But all that itching that other people suffered didn’t seem worth the effort to me, I hated fig preserves. But people would come until the figs were all gone. 

As a kid, I hated fig preserves. Well, actually, I hated the chunks of figs that were in fig preserves. I sort of liked the syrupy jelly around those chunks, there just wasn’t much of it, because my father liked his preserves with lots of figs. (It’s probably just a texture thing for me, I also hate strawberry preserves, but I like strawberry jelly.)

There are no fig trees today at the farm. I can’t really remember when they all died. But like other things you may not have liked during childhood, now I miss them. Several years ago, I saw a fig tree while working. The owner told me that I could get a cutting from it, but it wasn’t the right time of year. I was told I needed to get it in late December. Then I retired and never got it. And you know how people’s taste change? I wonder if I would like fig preserves better now that I am older. Or the inner cook in me wonders if you could put the preserves in a food processor, so they wouldn’t have chunks. Oddly enough, I love fig newtons. Strange isn’t it?