August is fig season in metro Atlanta, which makes the heat and humidity somehow easier to tolerate.
For the past couple of weeks, I've been watching the figs slowly get bigger on the tree, knowing that it's time for the annual "poker game" with the squirrels and birds. Sometimes I feel as though we are all watching to see when they'll be just right for picking, and it's always an "Aha!" moment when I get to the fruits before the critters do.
Walking along the path this morning, there were six figs perfectly ripe for the picking (the tree is in part shade, so we're typically a week or so behind everyone else). Of course they were at the top of the tree, so it meant getting out the ladder and a pair of clippers to climb up there, but it's definitely worth the work. Looking up at them in the sunshine, they were literally dripping with that sticky liquid the birds adore so much.
Most of us have emotional attachments to certain gardening activities, and for me, eating figs off a tree definitely falls into that category. Is there anything quite so sensual as biting into a fig, and feeling that sticky sweet juice pouring onto your hand?
I left the five prettiest fruits in a basket on the porch for "Mrs.," but just couldn't resist the temptation standing there on the ladder, clippers in one hand, the warm ripe fig in the other.....
Are we sure it was an apple that got Adam expelled from Eden?