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All for a Penguin's Fourth of July
Jul. 3rd, 2008 01:16 pmEvery year, roughly around the first week of July, fig season falls upon the ancestral lands of the Penguin.
By the way, this Penguin's South Louisiana ancestry was recently verified back to 1764, not that it has anything to do with this post. I'm just saying my flock has been in Louisiana before there was a Louisiana.
I digress.
Figs. Glorious, plump figs. A fruit traced back to the very beginning of history, the traditional offering of generosity to wayward travelers throughout the ages, a juicy pod of sweetness rarely matched in nature. Bless the figs. Hallelujah! Can I have a witness?
Figs have played a part in my personal history, as far back as I can remember. Indeed, further back than my father, my grandfather and my great grandfather could recall. Figs, figs, figs. There were fig trees in the yards of all my great-grandmothers (I had four at one point). Many a summer was spent in the great branches of those trees, gorging ourselves with the treasure of ripe Celeste figs while scratching the itch of fig tree sap. Fig tree sap, actually the milky ooze from the stem of a harvested fruit, is like liquid fiberglass. The military should use it in chemical warfare, as the result would be the enemy succumbing to the worst itchies ever.
Again, I digress.
In recent years my father has run a fig-related business, re-creating my great-grandmother's preserve recipe and selling it, en masse, to the world. The farmer's market was the main sell, but they had a website, too. If you're a local in NOLA, and you've been to Deanie's Bucktown location, their signature house vinaigrette used my father's fig preserves. That is, they used them up until last year.
In spring of 2007, my dad had a near-death experience. He fell from a ladder, six feet up, flat on his back. His breathing stopped. He lost consciousness. Honestly, we thought we lost him right then and there. But his breathing resumed before paramedics arrived. By med-copter they flew him into Lafayette. Judging from the pain he was suffering, at the least we feared he had broken his back. At the worst we thought paralysis from the neck down. In a dramatic addition, the chopper headed directly through a sleet storm and was grounded the second it hit the landing pad. My mother and I arrived at the ER, where we could not find anyone to get us in to see my father. Truly, it was a terrifying experience for all. Long story short (too late), he had only fractured a few vertebrae.
So where am I going with all this? The result was my father had a life-changing moment. The importance of maintaining a side business just didn't matter any more, so the fig business faded. I think it's a shame, since it's more or less a family legacy, but I acknowledge the emotional shift in his life, devoting attention to the ones he loves instead of commerce in a jar. Despite the end of the fig preserve trade, he does still have a fig orchard at the farm. I'm angling to have them make more preserves, mostly for my own greedy self, but likely that won't happen. Perhaps when I visit in a few weeks I can convince them to brew up a batch. Perhaps it's the time to inherit that recipe. No. I probably won't share that one.
How did I suddenly get the itch to write about this? Simple, really. In today's food section, Marcelle Bienvenu, that great disseminator of ageless South Louisiana culinary gems, dedicated her column to figs this morning. There are three recipes, one of which, fig-glazed pork tenderloins, is already a staple in my kitchen. My recipe, of course, not hers. As![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
defenestr8r will attest, figs and pigs mate quite beautifully on the grill. The following, however, is a masterpiece I am compelled to share:
Sounds awesome, doesn't it? I'll probably use a crust from scratch, and perhaps glaze the crust with my infused olive oil, but in any case the pizza would be dynamite. I'll post the results.
-------
And now a little personal sidebar...
On this holiday, let me say that, despite our image in the world, regardless of the fact our leader is controlled by special interests, beyond the sad state of our economy, society and Mother Earth in general, I am proud to be living in a country that still represents individual freedom. They can wiretap my conversations, scan my email, fill up my FBI dossier and allow my city to simply fall to ruin, but they cannot deny my right to say I disagree with the way our country is run. I can oppose an senseless war, denounce my politicians and refuse to accept national policy without fear, as I am a citizen of one of the greatest free democracies in history. While I endlessly apologize to my children for the condition of the world they stand to inherit, I can still inspire them to stand up for what they believe and fight for the changes that strengthen our people as a whole. One of the quotes inscribed in the Jefferson Memorial reads:
God bless America. Or, alternately, praise the random chaos that brought together the melting pot of my native land. Don't want to put all of my eggs in one spiritual basket.
Happy Independence Day.
By the way, this Penguin's South Louisiana ancestry was recently verified back to 1764, not that it has anything to do with this post. I'm just saying my flock has been in Louisiana before there was a Louisiana.
I digress.
Figs. Glorious, plump figs. A fruit traced back to the very beginning of history, the traditional offering of generosity to wayward travelers throughout the ages, a juicy pod of sweetness rarely matched in nature. Bless the figs. Hallelujah! Can I have a witness?
Figs have played a part in my personal history, as far back as I can remember. Indeed, further back than my father, my grandfather and my great grandfather could recall. Figs, figs, figs. There were fig trees in the yards of all my great-grandmothers (I had four at one point). Many a summer was spent in the great branches of those trees, gorging ourselves with the treasure of ripe Celeste figs while scratching the itch of fig tree sap. Fig tree sap, actually the milky ooze from the stem of a harvested fruit, is like liquid fiberglass. The military should use it in chemical warfare, as the result would be the enemy succumbing to the worst itchies ever.
Again, I digress.
In recent years my father has run a fig-related business, re-creating my great-grandmother's preserve recipe and selling it, en masse, to the world. The farmer's market was the main sell, but they had a website, too. If you're a local in NOLA, and you've been to Deanie's Bucktown location, their signature house vinaigrette used my father's fig preserves. That is, they used them up until last year.
In spring of 2007, my dad had a near-death experience. He fell from a ladder, six feet up, flat on his back. His breathing stopped. He lost consciousness. Honestly, we thought we lost him right then and there. But his breathing resumed before paramedics arrived. By med-copter they flew him into Lafayette. Judging from the pain he was suffering, at the least we feared he had broken his back. At the worst we thought paralysis from the neck down. In a dramatic addition, the chopper headed directly through a sleet storm and was grounded the second it hit the landing pad. My mother and I arrived at the ER, where we could not find anyone to get us in to see my father. Truly, it was a terrifying experience for all. Long story short (too late), he had only fractured a few vertebrae.
So where am I going with all this? The result was my father had a life-changing moment. The importance of maintaining a side business just didn't matter any more, so the fig business faded. I think it's a shame, since it's more or less a family legacy, but I acknowledge the emotional shift in his life, devoting attention to the ones he loves instead of commerce in a jar. Despite the end of the fig preserve trade, he does still have a fig orchard at the farm. I'm angling to have them make more preserves, mostly for my own greedy self, but likely that won't happen. Perhaps when I visit in a few weeks I can convince them to brew up a batch. Perhaps it's the time to inherit that recipe. No. I probably won't share that one.
How did I suddenly get the itch to write about this? Simple, really. In today's food section, Marcelle Bienvenu, that great disseminator of ageless South Louisiana culinary gems, dedicated her column to figs this morning. There are three recipes, one of which, fig-glazed pork tenderloins, is already a staple in my kitchen. My recipe, of course, not hers. As
defenestr8r will attest, figs and pigs mate quite beautifully on the grill. The following, however, is a masterpiece I am compelled to share:Prosciutto, goat cheese and fig pizza (credit to Marcelle Bienvenu of the Times-Picayune)
Makes 6 to 8 servings
6 ounces soft mild goat cheese (¤¾ cup), at room temperature
1 ½ teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
1 (12-inch) pre-baked pizza shell
12 fresh figs, trimmed and cut lengthwise in¤¼-inch slices
½ pound thinly sliced prosciutto
12 arugula leaves, tough stems discarded
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Stir together the goat cheese and pepper with a fork. Spread the mixture on the pizza shell, and artfully arrange the figs and prosciutto on top. Bake until warmed through. Remove the pizza from oven, top with the arugula, and serve.
Sounds awesome, doesn't it? I'll probably use a crust from scratch, and perhaps glaze the crust with my infused olive oil, but in any case the pizza would be dynamite. I'll post the results.
-------
And now a little personal sidebar...
On this holiday, let me say that, despite our image in the world, regardless of the fact our leader is controlled by special interests, beyond the sad state of our economy, society and Mother Earth in general, I am proud to be living in a country that still represents individual freedom. They can wiretap my conversations, scan my email, fill up my FBI dossier and allow my city to simply fall to ruin, but they cannot deny my right to say I disagree with the way our country is run. I can oppose an senseless war, denounce my politicians and refuse to accept national policy without fear, as I am a citizen of one of the greatest free democracies in history. While I endlessly apologize to my children for the condition of the world they stand to inherit, I can still inspire them to stand up for what they believe and fight for the changes that strengthen our people as a whole. One of the quotes inscribed in the Jefferson Memorial reads:
I am not an advocate for frequent changes in laws and constitutions. But laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind. As that becomes more developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths discovered and manners and opinions change, with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also to keep pace with the times. We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors.
God bless America. Or, alternately, praise the random chaos that brought together the melting pot of my native land. Don't want to put all of my eggs in one spiritual basket.
Happy Independence Day.
