Figs

We have this wonderful, generous neighbor who has blessed us with as many figs from his garden as we can eat.  He brought them over one day in a tin and whenever we finish them off, we bring the tin back and he returns it full.

He’s from Norway and keeps an amazing yard, especially for this part of the city– it reminds me of the Secret Garden.  He had us over for a late evening meal in his garden the other night with all kinds of food arranged on little plates, boards and bowls and several beers chilling in an ice bucket off to the side.  Inside his house is somewhat dark, the walls covered in oil paintings  and portraits of late relatives.  There are rugs strewn on the wood floors and furniture and trinkets from all over the world.  We had a lovely relaxing evening chatting about life and his past (his parents were holocaust survivors but died in a private plane crash along with several of his siblings, and he was raised in East Asia, India and various other countries by his Aunt).  I kept trying to think of who he reminded me of and then one day it struck me.  With his hospitality, his kindness, his foriegn-ness, his cozy little house– he reminded me of Tumnus the Faun.

Some day, if I can ever keep from eating all the figs right out of the tin, I hope to make fig bars.  If anyone has a tried and true recipe, please pass it on!