Garbanzo’s family has a recipe for pickled figs that dates back around 100 years. This recipe was handed down from mother to daughter throughout the generations. Then abruptly stopped when Garbanzo was the only grandchild – and he wasn’t a daughter.
When his aunt brought out a jar of pickled figs and told the story, Garbanzo wanted the recipe. And was promptly told no. Maybe his wife would get it when he got married. (The begging began well before we met.)
Each year, he would beg and plead his case – and each year, he was denied. He had a tough judge though – his aunt’s a federal prosecutor with an amazing record. She had high standards. He even pleaded to his Grandmother. Her grandmother always told him “maybe next year”.
Finally, a few years ago for Christmas, he received a jar of pickled figs from his aunt. Attached to the jar was the recipe. She had tormented him enough.
There is a particular kind of fig the recipe requires. They are very difficult to find. So last Saturday at the farmer’s market he found this:
The exact kind of fig tree needed to grow the figs for the recipe. He bought it and lugged it home on the MAX train (light rail public transportation that stops two blocks from the house). For about a week, it has been sitting on the island in the kitchen. I should plant it before it takes up permanent residency. It does seem happy where it is. It didn’t have leaves until a couple days ago.