My lovely brother in law, Nestor, owns a fixer upper on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. He's been slowly rehabbing the house, with hopes to retire there some time in the future. It's a long drive from DC, sitting in beach traffic with hundreds of others seeking sun and a slower days. His house isn't much to speak of yet. It has lovely bones and because it was built a long time ago it is falling apart at the seems. It will take years before it's ready for a rocking chair on the front porch. But meanwhile, oh, the fig trees. They surround the house, offering a little shade and something to sweeten the deal. This weekend Nestor brought me a platter of figs, dozens of them. I almost fell over when I saw them. Worth at least five Hamiltons here on the western shore. It makes me laugh about how plentiful these things are there and about how all us city dwellers pay through the nose for them when we see them at the farmers market. Makes me think I should give up on this crazy, fast paced life, buy a fixer upper, and forget about things like iPhones and iPads and everything in between.
I plan to make fig pizza and some fig jam.
I'm thrilled.
