Who is this fig who remains ripe, but just out of reach in on the tallest boughs? How is it her leaf carries the tropical scent of coconut? Do the crops wax and wane with the season or is just smoke and mirrors displayed for the mere sake of toying with our hearts, our libidos? The taste is honey, the texture sensual, the shape undeniably sexy.
Pour a refreshing drink filled with brittle ice cubes, come out of the heat and discover the fig trees I call home... another Monday KQED article.