I love watching for the first figs, the first hint of fruit that starts as big as a pinhead. The size of the baby figs at the moment varies from tree to tree, something to do with how much sun it gets I guess. Mid-April is a time when we are still thankful each morning to see the blue sky and the spring greening of the valley. The trees are not fully in leaf yet, so the easier it
is to see the fruit.
A sign that winter is truly behind us. A promise of summer, and figs, to come. 
Fig jam. Fig ice cream. Vanilla-poached figs. Fig cake. Fig and melon salad. Roasted figs with ricotta. Fig… 
5 to remember
una pista – a hint/clue
la cabeza de alfiler – pinhead
cúanto – how much
agredecido/a – thankful
una señal – a sign
Notes on a Spanish Valley 
Fresh figs straight off the tree…wonderful! You have to watch out they don’t have those little wiggly things in tho….
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Our trees are so difficult to reach, we have to wait for our neighbour’s son to visit and he scrambles into the heights without a care! SD
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Yummo, despite the difficulty in procurement. Looking forward to seeing all those delicious dishes in the future.
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I think they look like toys when they are this size! SD
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Your accent on “cuánto” has slipped onto the wrong vowel… a case of premature accentation…? 😉
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Definitely, I do have difficulty with spellcheck correcting everything. Thx for spotting this! SD
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You’re talking to the reigning Queen of the Typos here 🙂
WP undersquiggling every perfectly correct British spelling is NOT helping 😦 One of these days, I’m going to post a big rant about that…
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You’ve left me drooling! Here in the Pacific Northwest, our fig is still drooping from the snow we had months ago and there’s only a hint of bud, but we’re hopeful. You pictures are beautiful!
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Thx Susan, the knobbly shape of fruit and leaves makes them easy to photograph. 🙂 SD
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Sandra, I love this post, the photos and the title, which could be the title of your next poem.
My father, who passed 4 1/2 years ago, planted a fig tree. It grew to massive size and always produced a healthy harvest of figs. But this was BC – Before Computer, and we had little access to creative recipes. If it wasn’t in a cookbook, a cooking magazine, or a stash of personal recipes, it wasn’t going to be found. Dad wanted me to find a way of using the figs but I was an unnatural cook – no sense about how to put things together and limited ability even to follow a recipe. Still, I tried. I wanted to make fig newtons since we all loved them.
Well, I popped a bunch of peeled and chops figs into a pot and added honey and heaven knows what else. Since I had little idea how to make that fold-around cookie dough, I made a layer of something like a crunchy shortbread, topped it with a layer of my cooled fig stew, and then put another layer of the shortbread on top. It was baked until the upper crust looked done. After it cooled, we cut it into squares. It was a bar cookie and it tasted quite yummy but it was not a newton.
Thank you for prompting my memory of my dad and his fig tree
Now you must share your recipes – and write your poem!
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A poem, oh goodness. Not my strong point! SD
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“I love watching for the first figs, the first hint of fruit that starts as big as a pinhead. The size of the baby figs at the moment varies from tree to tree, something to do with how much sun it gets I guess. Mid-April is a time when we are still thankful each morning to see the blue sky and the spring greening of the valley. The trees are not fully in leaf yet, so the easier it
is to see the fruit.”
Yes, it is a poem.
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figs, and dates, and………OMG, I could go on. When I came back from Spain, so many years ago, I was sick on American food for a month. Just don’t ask me about Sangre de Toro! 🙂
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I have to ask… 🙂 SD
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Well, Sandra, I’m not a wine drinker, specifically I’m not a drinker at all, now. At that time, I had a marked preference for absinthe or an Amaretto or four alternating with cafe con leche.
I have vague memories of the night we were drinking blood of the bull, however it is not a night I’d like to repeat, not in this lifetime. Actually, I felt pretty good until the next morning. Thankfully there was fortifying morning coffees and walks on the beach in Chipiona, with the sun helping to burn the poisonous vapors from our bodies. Also,we were at my ex-sister-in-law’s house that night, so didn’t have to go anywhere at all. Let’s just say there were four not very sober adults
At least I left the Cruz Campo alone the entire time, after the one time we had a seafood lunch and some (some means too many!) beers at a local beach restaurant. I also remember waking up from the ensuing, mandatory nap after that lunch. 🙂
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I’m not a drinker either, but I am always amazed at the old uys in the ventas at breakfast-time, knocking back some stiff pink liquer! Perhaps that why siestas are so popular 🙂 SD
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