Week 1 | 2024
Every summer an old Italian would come to our market to sell us figs. Scarcely acknowledging my presence, he’d emerge slowly from his VW Golf, open the back, and reveal his prized fruit. Then he’d look up at me proudly, a broad smile covering his wrinkled face, and in a thick Italian accent say, “take one and taste”.
Respectfully, I’d reach into the trunk and grab a soft green fig, carefully breaking it open along the seam line where it was beginning to split to reveal its pinkish insides. Biting through the soft skin into the strawberry sweetness of the fruit and chewing thoughtfully, I’d say, “Very good, very good!”
The old man knew I also grew figs. But without apology he let me know that my trees were inferior to the ones he grew. His came from the old country. In 1954, in his mid twenties, several cuttings from his favorite trees were stuffed into his suitcase along with a few other treasured belongings he brought with him from Italy.
A few years after I got to know him, he invited me to his place. Honored, I turned onto his yard where a hand painted sign near the road read, “PLUMS” and a massive fig tree burdened with fruit leaned heavily against an aging barn.
I spent an hour that beautiful July day walking through his orchard that sprawled across an acre of land. He proudly showed me his figs, pawpaw’s and persimmons, yellow, purple, and red plums, quince and pears, apples, and kiwis. He shared with me the history of each tree and pointed out the grafts that that his young hands had made in the persimmons that were now gnarled with age and stood thirty feet tall.
As he spoke, he yanked feebly at the invasive morning glory that twined around the trunks of his plums threatening to choke them. He admitted that he no longer could maintain the orchard so I asked him who would take care if it when he no longer could. He said he didn’t know.
Every year we bought all the fruit he delivered. But for the past two summers, no black hatchback appeared at Local Harvest. Last week, saddened and guilt-ridden by the thought that he may no longer be with us, I mustered up the courage to visit his home. The massive fig tree that belonged to the barn was cut down at the base and his black car leaned tiredly to one side, the seats grey with mold. The place looked sad and forlorn, and I feared the worst.
I rapped at the glass door and waited. No answer. Rain poured from the leaking eaves onto my head, but I didn’t care. The unpruned fruit trees, nobly clothed in their leaves and adorned with fruit a few summers ago, now looked weary with age and appeared ashamed to stand naked in front of this intruder. Still no answer. I tried another door calling myself a thousand fools for not visiting earlier.
But then I heard the feeble tread of soft feet on wood. In suspense I waited. The door creaked open and there in the doorway was the fig grower. Though shrunken with age and battling a cold he instantly recognized me through moistened eyes. He gave a little shout for joy, and I echoed his happiness.
It was wet but he didn’t hesitate to slip on his crocks and take me out to his orchard. As we squished through the wet grass, he again talked about the varieties he grew, the grafts he made and the pruning methods he employed. He offered me some pawpaw shoots that had germinated around the base of the mother tree that previous summer and in return I offered to help him prune later that winter.
Then he took me to the stump of the giant fig tree. He explained that his beloved tree had succumbed to the severe cold we had experienced the two winters prior. A sad look spread across his worn face, and he said, “now I’m too old to start again and I have not much ambition and time left.”
With that he leaned down and with a sparkle in his dampened eye, he pointed at the new shoots that had emerged from around the base of the old trunk. Then he said in a quiet voice, “These grew up this past summer. The tree has not died completely. Its roots live on. If you come back in February, I will give you some cuttings. Can you grow this tree for me?”
I have many plans for the new year, but none will be more important than paying a visit to my Italian friend to help him prune his trees and to take cuttings from his figs so that his legacy can be carried forward on our farm.
Farm Grown Bok Choy
Bok choy is the romaine of the winter because it replaces summer lettuces when the days get cool. Seed bok choy in early September and by November you’ll be rewarded with bright green leaves on sweet, crunchy white stalks.
Bok choy has been slow to catch on in supermarkets because lettuce from around the world is now available every month of the year. But locavores, shopping at farmers markets, have come to appreciate this winter green using it in stir fry’s, salads, and soups all winter long.
We direct seed it after a crop of potatoes or onions in early fall, but you can also sow this brassica in March for a May harvest. It’s fairly disease resistant and grows fast. Try growing a couple of the mini variations of this vegetable in your garden next year and include them in your cooking.
