The first time I had a fresh fig was in Damascus on mine and Mike’s honeymoon.
Mike and I were served a platter of fruit (it’s the standard fare served after a big meal there…not really dessert, since that comes later. More like an after-dinner treat). A few ripe, very tempting figs rested on an ornately designed silver platter. One fig was cut in half, its deep red, juicy interior exposed; it looked soft and sweet and was practically calling out to be eaten. One bite and I was sold; that was all it took to ensure I turn into a fig-crazed maniac until I get my fix of figs every fig season. [Read more…]