If You Desire a Fig…

If you tell me that you desire a fig, I answer you that there must be time. Let it first blossom, then bear fruit, then ripen. — Epictetus (c. 55–135 AD)

Figs, figs, figs, figs…I’ve got four green ones on the tree outside my office window. This may not sound like many, but to me it’s proof positive of divine intervention. OK, it’s simply because the tree has been in the ground for three years in the same spot. After all, common wisdom holds that it takes three years for a fig tree to produce. But to me, figs on a tree in my own garden is something divine.

These little green marvels may not ripen, as it has been one of the coolest Norman summers in recorded history. I don’t care. I just need to know that this tree I’ve watched over, trimmed, tied back and otherwise coddled is a producer. I’ve long dreamed of harvesting figs from my own tree, and the dream may be coming true.

I admit I’ve worried a lot about my tree. My French friends and neighbors all seem to be experts on the subject. “Oh, you need a male and a female tree, otherwise, no fruit,” said one. “You can’t grow figs in this climate,” said another. “Your garden is too small.” “Your house is too big.” “The church is too close.” “The tree is too wild.” You name it, I’ve heard it. As I do with much unasked-for commentary and advice, I’ve tried to ignore it all, keeping my own private little flame of hope alive. So I feel smug today when I look out my window and see those tiny little green knobs. To someone else they might be wannabes; to me they’re my own, homegrown figs.

The tree has obviously been out of its mind with delight where I planted it, the proof being its explosive growth each year. It began as a twig; I’ve had to trim it mercilessly so that I still have room for my garden table and chairs. It obviously loves the heirloom rose that grows behind it, the wild strawberries and rambling purple iris at its feet. It reaches for the sun, trying as hard as it can to make an arch over the brick pathway that leads to the apple trees beyond. Fig trees don’t arch, but do I want to tell mine that? When it’s sleeping, in the winter and early spring, I’ll trim it back again. It will have forgotten the previous season’s desire to arch and will be reborn with a whole new interest in the subject.

And next year, along with abundant foliage there will be bushels of figs, I’m certain, for channels are open, the mechanism oiled. I’m already harvesting them in my mind. I’ll eat the earliest figs straight from the tree, because that’s when they are at their best. A freshly picked fig bears no resemblance to the same fruit even one hour later. I’m not sure of the chemical process but something drastic occurs. The freshly picked fig is a wealth of opulent flavor and sensual texture. An hour later its ambrosial quality has waned.

My second act will be to make a fig and apple tart, with the local summer apples that are so crisp, juicy and tart. One of my favorite desserts, it’s a seasonal treasure.

My third and most appreciated act (by my children and my friends) will be to make fig and lemon preserves. My recipe is a combination of one from my grandmother, who was a poetic cook, and another from a friend in the Dordogne, where fig trees are heavily laden each year. The result is a figgy, lemony, gingery thick compote that is exquisite on freshly baked bread, like that from the Poilâne bakery in Paris. The bread needs to be cut in slabs; butter spread on it in a thick layer, the compote added in generous measure. Try this with a bowl of steaming hot coffee on a winter morning; you’ll be transported.

There are many ways to prepare figs, and I plan to dive right in with my harvest next year. I will braise them in spiced red wine or sauté them with garlic, shallot, and fresh rosemary and serve them as a vegetable. They will be scrumptious stuffed with soft, fresh goat cheese and drizzled with honey for an afternoon snack. We’ll all adore them thickly sliced and put on an onion-and-cream pizza, or wrapped in slices of air-cured prosciutto, or served with chunks of juicy, perfectly ripe melon. When I have those bushels I’m expecting next year, I’ll think of even more things to do with my bountiful harvest.

Almost as satisfying as the fruit is the perfume a fig tree gives to a garden. Not so long ago, on a warm evening, we were enjoying an al fresco dinner. One of my guests was a friend from Syria. We were happily eating a meal of lightly sautéed monkfish tails and a fresh heirloom tomato salad when he stopped, knife and fork in the air. “Oh, the perfume of that fig tree. It makes me think of Damascus,” he said with a far-away sound to his voice. He proceeded to lyrically recount how he and his brothers plucked figs from trees lining the streets in Damascus and how, when he emigrated to France to continue his medical studies, figs were one of the things he missed most about his native land. It turned out that everyone around the table had some sort of Proustian fig story to tell. There was the one about the Portuguese vendor at our local market who always sold the softest, most gorgeous dried figs. When he retired, they disappeared for eternity. Another was the story of stuffing those same splendid figs with pistachio paste and semi-sweet chocolate, baking them, and sprinkling them with minced, salted pistachios. My daughter remembered how we always had a kilo of those figs in our bags when we visited family in the US, so people at home could enjoy their marvelous texture and flavor too.

And then there were nostalgic tales of my friend Edith’s dog, César, and his fig fixation. A vagabond if ever there was one, César would return from his wanderings on a late summer afternoon, trot right through the house and out to the fig tree, where he would leap up into the leaves for an afternoon snack.

That same tree, always laden with figs, has been my beacon of hope in the face of my own tree’s barren branches. Edith has always repeated “Don’t worry, your tree will bear figs. It takes time.”

I leave you with that thought, which might also be a metaphor for all good things in life. I’m off now, to go visit with my fig tree and encourage it for next year, when it will bear those many bushels.

APPLE AND FIG TART

TOURTE AUX POMMES ET AUX FIGUES

For the pastry:

2 large eggs

1/2 cup hazelnuts, lightly toasted and cooled

3/4 cup unblanched almonds, lightly toasted and cooled

1/2 cup (100 g) vanilla sugar

2 cups (290 g) all-purpose flour

1/4 tsp ground cinnamon

Generous 1/4 tsp fine sea salt

1/4 tsp minced lemon zest

8 oz (250 g, or 2 sticks) unsalted butter, chilled, cut into 1/2 inch (1.3 cm) cubes

For the filling:

4 medium-sized tart apples, peeled, cored and cut into eighths

10 fresh figs, quartered

1/2 cup (100 g) vanilla sugar

1/4 cup light brown sugar, gently packed

1-1/2 tbsp all-purpose flour

1/2 tsp minced lemon zest

1 tbsp unsalted butter

1 tbsp freshly squeezed lemon juice, or to taste

For the egg wash:

1 small egg

1 tsp water

1. Whisk eggs until they are homogeneous.

2. Place nuts and 2 tbsp of the sugar in the work bowl of a food processor and process until nuts are finely ground. Add remaining sugar, flour, cinnamon, salt and lemon zest and process until finely mixed.

3. Add butter and mix until mixture resembles fine crumbs. Add eggs and mix just until dough is homogenous and holds together in large lumps. Turn dough out onto lightly floured surface and knead it once or twice. Divide dough into two pieces, one that is one-third of the dough, the other which is two-thirds. Pat them into flat rounds, place on a plate and cover them loosely, then refrigerate for about an hour to allow butter to harden slightly.

4. While dough is chilling, make the filling. Place apples, 5 of the figs, and the sugars into a medium-sized saucepan and cook, stirring frequently, until apples are soft, about 15 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in flour, lemon zest, butter and lemon juice, then fold in remaining figs. Taste for seasoning, adding lemon juice if necessary. Remove from heat.

5. Preheat oven to 350º F (180º C). Whisk egg with water in a small bowl.

6. Roll out the larger portion of dough to a 12-inch (30-cm) round. Line a 10-1/2-inch (26-cm) removable-bottomed tart tin with it, fitting it carefully into the mold. Refrigerate. Roll out remaining dough into a round large enough to cover tart and cut into 1/2-inch (1.3cm) strips.

7. Fill tart tin with filling, smoothing it carefully. Lay strips across top of filling, either weaving them or simply overlapping them. Brush strips evenly with egg wash. Place tart on a baking sheet and bake in bottom third of oven until pastry is golden and cooked through, about 35 minutes. Remove from heat and transfer tart to a rack. Serve cool. 10 servings

Susan Herrmann Loomis teaches cooking classes in Normandy and Paris. The latest of her ten books, Nuts in the Kitchen, has just been published by HarperCollins. Find it in the France Today bookstore.

Originally published in the October 2010 issue of France Today.