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THE FOLLOWING MORNING there was nothing I could do about it--I had to make up a platter of those fantastic photogenic figs. And then, because they really did lend themselves so readily to being photographed, so modest yet strikingly beautiful, so humble yet elegant...I soon had more pictures than I could ever possibly use--certainly far too many to show you, Dear Reader!)


















And we had far too many figs to eat just as they each reached the prime moment of ripening, as well. Some of them were racing to old age already by this afternoon.






But I knew what to do: Hadn't my mother put a recipe for Fig Preserves in the notebook of family recipes she'd made for me?

There it was under 'Miscellaneous,' right between Swedish Glug and Daddy Dan's BBQ Sauce.

It's just about the simplest thing in the world to make--chop, chop, chop; add the sugar; boil 'til thick. Duh. (I told you--simple!)




And I love this little kitchen experiment: the way it starts out with the glistening mound of sugar atop the figs, which gets stirred into a juicy mass of spritely bubbles (sometimes too energetic, leaping out of the pan)...that grows more and more stodgy, finally giving poofy little sighs of exhaustion, until it tells the stirrer --Enough already! Any thicker and YOU'LL be the one complaining!

I put the stuff into two little jars and screwed on the lids. Then I...ahh...snacked on the...oh, so warm and sweet...few tablespoons left over. I swooned. I licked the spoon and I licked the knife. I scraped every last tiny sticky morsel from the pan. I looked looongingly at those freshly sealed jars. And I made a little note to myself: If I am ever called upon to order a final meal, I've got to be sure to include (freshly-made) fig preserves!
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