She stood looking at the tree, eyes squinting against the blazing sun; hand over them, shielding the glare so she could see the luscious purplish black, sack like orbs, stem bent just at a perfect angle for twisting off the tree. Late summer heat waves radiating off the ground as well as from an impossibly blue sky and every other angle were quickly coaxing the figs to perfect ripeness. White milk gushes from the stem as it is separated from the tree, sticky nectar on her willing fingers. Gently splitting open the fig with her thumbs always steals her breath momentarily at the sight of the shades of deep magenta, illegal reds and soft green, a flower unfurling in her hands. With quickening heart and racing pulse she moves the fig closer to her mouth, imperceptibly, shaking with anticipation of the smooth, slippery texture that will move through her lips and onto her tongue, willing the assault of sugar, chocolate and berry onto her taste buds. Trembling slightly she closes her eyes and with a will of their own her hands bring the fig into her warm, waiting mouth and once again she is shocked, dazed as bliss over takes her and she slowly releases a held, exotically perfumed breath, her first taste of Burt’s amazing, ripe, Brown Turkey fig, of a long Brown turkey fig season filled with every concoction she can imagine in her fig wild head.
Honey thickened and rosemary scented balsamic syrup drizzled over a fig half, gently, lovingly stuffed with a pinch of fresh goat cheese. Placed on a fig wood fired grill just long enough to let the cheese believe it is melting. Pushed into a thin, soft layer of hard wheat dough, showered with prosciutto, Manchego and caramelized onions, breathing in intoxicating smells as the pizza bakes only to be dusted with fresh picked thyme and sea salt out of the raging oven.
Another one out of hand, she is still profoundly, physically affected by the texture, smell and taste of that Brown Turkey.