When hubbie and I moved into this house almost three years ago, I found a struggling potted twig abandoned in the back yard. It was barely alive, but I recognized the leaves immediately - it was a fig. A struggling, little fig tree.
We'd moved from a different growing zone, but I still knew that even in this new home, we were borderline for growing figs. So, I planted it next to the chimney where the sun was strong, the bricks would hold the heat, and maybe the fireplace would radiate some heat in the winter. It worked.
Two years later, the fig tree is taller than I am, and this summer it's producing like crazy. I pick several each morning to eat with my breakfast and I'm reminded of the fig tree at the beach, and buying figs from roadside stands as a kid. In fact, all my memories of figs are good. They make me happy.
I love starting each day with these yummy little treasures.
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