Figs, figs everywhere. At first I kept it quiet, since many of the fig trees in town died last year due to a) a virus or b) a beetle, depending on who you talk to. I made the assumption that I had been spared the a and the b, and since I was scoffing them as fast as they could ripen, I kept quiet that I had them. When my other tree with a different variety started bearing, I fessed up and started giving them away.
I tried to give them away, but nobody wanted them. I can only assume a) they have their own figs and are keeping quiet about them or b) they don’t like figs.
Double cream yoghurt cuts the sweetness nicely.
I want to say something about big men that cook, and I’m referring to the delectable Paul Hollywood here. I love a big man who cooks. I even married one, but unfortunately his idea of cooking was “doing the meat” using every dish in the kitchen. And washing up was outside his scope of expertise. So let me qualify that : I love a big man who cooks the meat and all the other stuff and washes up afterwards. There. I’ve said it.