I purchased a punnet of fresh figs at the store today. When I got home, I rinsed them and pulled one open. It took some pressure top pull it apart which should have been a sign. It was alright, I suppose, but neither as plump or as juicy as I had hoped.

It took me back to staying in a little agriturismo in Castelfiorentino far too many years ago. The garden bordered an olive grove and was filled with fig trees. Late in August the branches hung low, heavily laden with ripe fruit. The ground beneath the trees was carpeted with fallen fruit that could no longer hold on. Late in the day, the rich purple fruit were warm from the Tuscan sun when you picked them up. They split open with the gentlest squeeze. The luscious red centre of the fruit was almost like jam, baked in the warm sun. The juiciness of the fruit glistened and the sweetness exploded on your tongue, rich and delicious. There was always far more than you could eat, each one more delicious.

Many burst open when they hit the ground and there were a couple of lizards also enjoying the spoils of nature as they basked in the sun.

A scent of sweetness hung in the air when you sat in the shade of the tree, feasting on figs. The gentle hum of insects lulled you into a dreamy contentment.

I always picked up a few more to take back to the table. The sugary fruit was soft and easy to spread on a piece of bread with some soft cheese and drizzle of olive oil for a heavenly appetizer.

Figs will always take me back to Tuscany, where I was lucky enough to eat figs exactly as they’re meant to be enjoyed.