The Sumptuous Fig

In winters cold, as wind shuffles through my bare branches that look like the gangly limbs of youth searching for their boundaries, my story begins. Rooted deeply in the ground, surviving the passage of time and harsh summers on inhospitable slopes and plains in the Middle East and Mediterranean, my idiosyncrasies and contradictions, perfected by Nature, have developed over the centuries.

A classical fruit tree of antiquity our companionship has become embedded in the cultural and spiritual DNA of great civilisations, shaping ethos, religion, and language. My symbolic history is a roller-coaster that fires the imagination, stirs the pudendal artery, and challenges the intellect. I’m linked to the founding of Rome when Romulus and Remus' basket, that was cast into the Tiber River, came to rest under my protection and where they were suckled by the She-Wolf. I’m the first fruit mentioned in the Bible after that sinful bite and become the first item of clothing, the fabric of Eden, when my leaves were sewn together to cover Adam and Eve’s nakedness. My leaf becoming a symbol of modesty to some.

Yet my fruit was sacred to Bacchus, the god of wine, freedom, intoxication, and ecstasy. It fuelled his vigour, sustained his licentious antics during notorious Bacchanalian feasts until they were banned by the Roman Senate. My reputation sullied by this debaucherous behaviour, may have given rise to the crude sexual connotations that accompanied me for hundreds of years in Latin-derived languages and the rise of the obscene hand gesture, Manco fico. In street language, it’s used as a debasing insult or as a lustful inclination. The demeanour of the fist maker being the key to deciphering its meaning.

But I must protest and claim moral innocence. I’m not a wanton fruit, that thirsts to lead others down the path of temptation. My intense sweetness, an ancient elixir, pulses a vibrancy and new life through the veins of those that partake in my flesh. Some, overwhelmed by its potency, see me through their prism of wantonness. Others are enlightened and see virtue and honour.

In ancient Greece, I was considered more precious than gold and was a banned export. Priests known as sycophants, sanctioned my harvest and were the entrusted guardians to prevent smuggling. Later sycophant was applied to black market informers . Acknowledged for my restorative and nutritional qualities, I was presented as a medal or strung into the wreaths for Olympians, a reward for their athletic prowess. Others, seeing my abundant seed chamber, assigned different meanings. Unity, the universality of true understanding, knowledge and faith, fertility, prosperity, and well-being. I’ve carried the spectrum of your meanings, but I’m much more than symbolism.

Oversized leaves of moss green with deep artisanal lobes appear glossy at first. But on touch they’re coarse, leathery. The obvious can be misleading, looks can be deceiving.

Cradled between stem and leaf, as a perky, nubile fruit I yearn for hot, thirst for dry. Rejoicing in the last of summers warmth, swelling voluptuously ‘til ripe, I hang heavily, like a sack of precious family jewels, pretentious collions modelling for Michelangelo as he fashioned well endowered Gods. Unable to contain the luscious bounty, with a radiant smile my peel gapes, perfume fills the air, honey drips; a magic potion casts its spell.

Most call me a fruit, but this falsehood is perpetuated for simplicity. I’m really a syconium, a portion of the stem that expands into a sac to create an inner sanctum. A bejewelled carmine coloured flower chamber. A womb, lined with thousands of succulent flower sacs growing internally, nurtured in the dark after being pollinated by an obscure wasp that will die a merciless death, like a Genie trapped in Aladdin’s lamp. I’m not always what I appear to be.

Whether plucked warm from the tree, torn apart and the flesh stripped from its skin in a wild moment of passion for instant gratification or served graciously on the table, my sweetness has lured rich and poor alike. Easily bruised and damaged, the ancient craft of drying has been used for centuries to enshrine my beauty. But alas, the delicate flesh darkens and becomes as tough as leather and full of seeds like an ancient misshapen crone that shrinks from the light. Either way, regardless of form, my sweetness was used well before honey and sugar and I’m still revered today.

I take my name from an ancient settlement Carica, in southwest Turkey. It was noted for its sumptuous figs. Ficus carica that’s my full name now and numerous varieties like White Adriatic, Black Mission, Brown Turkey, Black Genoa, White Genoa, San Pedro, stretch across the globe. Each attaining a unique skin colour, but the fruit is always luscious with a light berry flavour and heady perfume when ripe.

Life has never been mundane, carrying cultural meaning, shaping designer clothing in the Garden of Eden, language, and the works of great Renaissance sculptors, bearing a false topsy-turvy fruit that’s really ripened flower clusters and protecting my delicacy with acrid sap to repel marauding hordes is just a smidgen of my guise, my worth and my idiosyncrasies. My contradictions have played out in the millennial theatre, and though at times I appear simple and humble, the taste of my sun ripened flesh is one of the most exquisite pleasures in the earthly realm.