I would say that the only thing that I don't like about figs is when people write about them and feel compelled to crack horrendously lame 'jokes' about not giving a fig. There'll be none of that here; no, when I tell you all about the grilled figs that I've been putting on my porridge this week I'll be too busy oo-ing over 1) the taste, 2) the smell and 3) the price to resort to such over-trodden paths of pun-ness.
Figs didn't really cross my radar until a few years ago when I was making a simple-but-tasty dessert with them. And since the lasting impression they created was one of eye-watering priceyness, I didn't choose to reintroduce them to my culinary repertoire after that. They are also delicate little things, soft and bruise-able - not the kind of item to leave in the care of a tall, clumsy person who shoves belongings into bags willy nilly when out and about and doing the groceries. But they are so pretty and, well, kind of thoughtful looking; those lovely soft colours, the green seeping down into the soft purple. An utterly photogenic fruit. When I lingered at the fridge in the little veggie store where I was looking them, I wondered aloud how old they were, as they felt so soft as to be getting on a little. My enquiry brought the price down from 79 cent to 49 cent - and there it was, breakfast for the week.
Look at that blushing pinkyness! Sigh. What a colour palette. And the sweet sweet smell that wafted out form the oven as they softened up under the grill. It was a bit of a storybook domestic goddess's kitchen smell.
I would advise, when halving the figs to grill, making sure that each half is left with a little of the stalk so that you can pick it up easily to scoop out the flesh.
Much as I love my daily dosage of seeds and manuka, on this occasion they overwhelmed the soft, grilled fruit a little. It was delicious, in any case, and the texture was as much of a joy as the sweet figs. Mmmmm. Treat yourself.
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