Silence the village gossip with nutty figs
rolled in crushed peppercorns.
Layer the fiery fruit in a jar between bay leaves.
Store in a dark place for three days.
Leave your offering on her doorstep.
Sweeten your choleric mother-in-law,
a small crepey woman in a black dress
smelling of mothballs and rectitude,
with stuffed quails roasted in thick balsamic sauce,
followed by ricotta rose cheesecake and marzipan filled figs.
Spill velvet pink petals over her plate.
Soothe inflamed ulcers and decaying lesions
with a steamed fig, slippery elm, flaxseed poultice.
Wrap around the weeping skin in a muslin cloth.
Apply fresh poultices and invocations as needed.
Pick a ribbed fig from the tree at twilight.
Stand your boots outside the kitchen door.
Split the dark cocoon in two.
Rub the gnarled wart with amber pulp and crunchy seeds.
Tie the halves together again.
Bury them in the flinty earth
under the waning moon.
Cure fatigue, insomnia or nightmares by boiling milk
poured in a creamy swish from the pail
with sun-baked figs and turmeric.
Add lavender honey to taste.
Drink slowly from a deep yellow bowl.
Bind three white Cilento figs
with a crimson ribbon for dreams of love.
Before extinguishing the candle flame,
place the fruit under your pillow.
In the morning, rise yawning,
loop the ribbon around your waist.
If your heart is in your mouth,
marinate it, sear it,
eat it with figs.
Beguile your partner with fig-leaf absolute
dabbed along the pale curve of your neck.
Wear almond blossoms in your hair. Sip Prosecco.
Dance on a terracotta tiled terrace, with a view of the harbour,
to the flashing grin of an accordionist
who smells of sulphur and plays like the devil.
Clap your hands. This is no time to tiptoe.
On a balmy midsummer evening, wrap up your al fresco meal
at the warped wooden table under the plane tree
with blistered grilled figs, spoonfuls of soft mascarpone
drizzled with orange blossom and rose water.
Dust with confectioners’ sugar. Smell the mimosa.
Don’t wipe the sugary smudge from your chin.
Carry the sated silence to bed.
Arouse your lover with plump purple figs in a cool bowl of water.
Break the thin moist skin with your fingers.
Bruised with desire, close your eyes. Listen to your breathing,
the sound as the tide washes in.
On a windy day welcome your new neighbours across the pasture.
Make them feel at home with capocollo,
a sausage of figs, almonds, pistachios and cinnamon.
Fold your late summer gift in leaves
left in a basket on the porch. Follow the dung
and wild mushroom trail home, a wasp
hovering at your shoulder.
In autumn, line your pantry shelves with jars of glistening fig jam
scented with green cardamom pods. Seal in the sunshine
with smooth wax discs and tight screw-top lids,
while your tortoiseshell tom licks himself with a rasping tongue,
dreaming of sparrows.
Feed a hungry family
with slow-cooked pork loin and Adriatic fig stuffing.
Serve with golden polenta. Garnish with watercress.
Open bottles of the full bodied local wine.
Taste the flavour of olive-wood smoke, the lit fire,
the mass and measure of November’s indulgences.
When the sky pops and hisses with stars,
celebrate the year’s trailing tail.
Prepare fig fillets stuffed with amaretti biscotti
and smoky chocolate slivers.
Serve with steaming espressos before midnight.