10 oct 2018
I was picking figs this morning from a fig tree that hasn’t, in the fifteen years I’ve been here, ever proposed anything other than a few puny sprouts here and there. And yet there I was, in the early morning sunshine, the dew still on the leaves, gently squeezing this one and that one, among the tens of potential candidates for my little wooden woven pail.
Not normal to have figs in Burgundy. Maybe down south, where it’s hot, really hot, a good part of the year. But Burgundy? Yeah, you can find them here and there if they’re planted in just the right spot, but they’re kind of finicky, and will produce only when they, or their particular micro-climate, decides.
So it was this year. It was really hot. And we’ve not had a lot of rain. Water tables are down everywhere. Water restrictions have been imposed. The farmers (some of them) are feeding the cows their winter hay already, there’s so little grass left in the fields to eat. Everything is brown. Digging our potatoes was like trying to dig into cement.
And yet, there I was, picking one of the most delicious fruits imaginable, thinking of the Palestinians who can’t even access their own gardens. Pretty fucked up world.