I told my friend Toronto that along with not having to deal with holiday weekend traffic, an advantage of working at home today is that I feasted on figs and tea.
Her response?: "Where are you, Casablanca?"
Now that would make the day perfect. My ceiling fan was made of painted white plywood rather than reeds and I opted for air conditioning against the heat.
But the figs, oh my dears, the figs. Perfection in a fruit. What more does one need? It's all I ate all day.
How is it that I was unaware of the fresh fig until I was 35 years old and my brother had a tree in his Echo Park yard?
A newton is nice, but it doesn't hold a candle to the real thing, this fruit that feeds wasps and reveals secrets rivaling the most sparkling geode.
Figs and Russian Samovar tea that my mother sent me in the mail from exotic northern Indiana. Today I had a happy palate.