Mama and Her Figs

We had a big fig tree that grew into the side of the levee on our property along Bayou Lafourche. It was mature and full of strong, rumpled limbs and wide, bigger-than-hand-sized leaves. Mama loved figs. From the moment they ripened, she’d spend every late evening in a ladder cuddled by the big branches, picking figs, dropping them in her white bucket. Many times we’d run outside to find her in the twilight, ignoring the zillions of mosquitos and the sweltering summer heat to tell her we wanted supper.

My father’s parents lived across the street from us and they farmed sugarcane for their serious income. But, they also planted smaller crops in spring and summer after the cane was harvested. This meant that as soon as school let out, my vacation was spent shelling butter beans, snapping green beans, stripping black-eyed peas out of their blankets, shucking corn, and joining in on whole extended family excursions in “the back” of the field to dig potatoes and load them up into an old pirogue that wasn’t seaworthy, but strong enough to be pulled behind a tractor for tater transport. My mother loved her fresh vegetables, but she complained about this work the entire time.

Not one negative word was ever said about her fig work, though. For her, fig harvesting was a labor of love and one she indulged practically alone — I only remember rare occasions when my daddy helped out.

She’d fill her bucket, walk them to the porch, rinse them off, and bring them inside where they were cooked down with sugar into her “preserves” and eaten with the locally made smoked sausage bought from Mr. Boozie and her amazing white beans and rice.

I found the preserves gross as a kid, preferring processed apple jelly to her homemade concoction. Why they saw it to be normal to put jam on a piece of sausage, was beyond me. I was an idiot during those times, perhaps from watching too many Sherwood Schwartz sitcoms. It wasn’t until I was older when, by accident, I ate some strange gourmet item that mixed savory and sweet when I realized this was what figs and sausage were all about.

Recently, figs were all the rage here in California. And, the popular appetizer passed around at many a function I attended was a braised fig, wrapped in bacon, topped with goat cheese. I’m sure the foodies here wouldn’t admit it, but I thought it was a very close cousin to the sausage and preserves. But, not nearly as good.