By Susan Marque
1
T
he tree looked sad. Most trees in Southern California had a scrappy appearance, often with dried
brown bits hanging from them. They were not lush like the Minnesota tress I grew up with. Pines,
Oaks, Firs, Birch, Aspen, were the trees of my childhood. “Real trees,” I called them. Palm trees were
just silly. The first time4I saw a fig tree, it was growing in the North Hollywood yard, of the man I was
dating. I stopped to look at the green bulbs emerging.
“They’re figs,” he said.
“I didn’t even know figs grew on trees,” I said, as I examined the fruit growing between large
scalloped leaves. He laughed. The tree wasn’t that tall and didn’t offer the kind of shade I would
expect Siddartha to have chosen for meditation, when he became the Buddha. The figs were too green
to eat. The boyfriend and I broke up before they ever got ripe. They failed me as a symbol of security.
I had only eaten dried figs, an expensive delicacy that we rarely had in Minnesota. We did get
fig Newtons more often. I loved Nabisco’s version of a fig bar. Then in a shopping trip to Ralph’s
grocery store soon after I’d touched those green figs, I saw my first basket of fresh California Mission
figs. Most fruits are pretty attractive in their juicy state. These were dark, almost black, with wrinkled
skin. Unlike a beautiful plum, or a pretty peach, the figs looked like the awkward kid who was picked
last for team sports. I had never seen them pictured in a fruit salad, or on the side of a plate like a slice
of orange, or a strawberry.
“Try one,” the produce guy said to me. He took a small fig from its family and held it out for
me. In one bite I was smitten.
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THE CONE - ISSUE #7 - FALL 2015