After the rain: Picking fresh figs in Sicily

Every summer in Sicily is hot. It comes with the territory. But this year, the heat has been relentless. An African anti-cyclone low pressure system has settled over the island for weeks now, baking the landscape day after day until the earth has cracked into a thousand pieces. Across the fields, deep fissures spread through the soil like the pieces of an enormous jigsaw puzzle.

For days we have watched the sky, searching the clouds for the slightest promise of rain. Most of our rainfall comes during the winter months, but every now and then, summer offers a brief reprieve. This morning, quite unexpectedly, it arrived.

First came the wind.

It swept across the property, lifting dry leaves into dancing spirals and bending the branches of the olive and eucalyptus trees as though they were bowing before it. Then came the thunder. Great booming claps rolled across the countryside, sending our little Maltese into a trembling heap beneath the table, shaking at every crash.

Then the heavens opened.

The rain poured down in great sheets. It lasted no more than twenty minutes, but it was enough. Enough to soak the thirsty earth. Enough to feed the vegetable garden. Enough to give the trees the drink they had been waiting for.

Before long, the storm had passed. The sun returned as though nothing had happened, and with it came the familiar Sicilian humidity. The air filled with the rich scent of wet earth—a little musty, deeply comforting, and somehow full of promise.

I had intended to pick the figs the day before, but the storm made me wonder how many might now be lying bruised beneath the trees.

Later that afternoon, bucket in hand, I wandered down to the fig trees. To my delight, only a handful had fallen. The branches were still heavy with fruit, each fig plump, soft and warm from the returning sunshine.

Harry, our mischievous stray ginger kitten, appeared as if on cue. Rather than helping, he wound himself around my ankles before flopping happily among the fallen figs, perfectly content to supervise while I began to fill my bucket.

I reached between the leaves and twisted the plump figs from their fragile stems. The fruit was soft to the touch and still warm from the sun. They were so delicate that I could almost see the impressions my fingers had left behind. One by one, I placed them carefully into the bucket, making sure they would not bruise.

By then, the wasps had already discovered the sweetest fruit. Ants had beaten them to some of the ripest figs, busily carrying away their own tiny feast. I left those for them. The highest fruit remained untouched, reserved for the magpies that would arrive later as the evening cooled.

There is something about a fig tree that encourages generosity. There always seems to be enough to share—with insects, birds and people alike.

Back in the kitchen, I looked at the pork fillet I had taken from the refrigerator earlier that morning. Until then I had no idea how I would cook it. The figs made the decision for me. Pork fillet roasted with fresh figs suddenly seemed like the only sensible choice.

The rest of the day’s harvest will find its way into jars over the coming days. There is something deeply satisfying about making fig jam while the scent of fresh rain still lingers in the air.

Some days are marked by grand adventures.

Others are remembered simply because the rain finally came, the figs in Sicily were sweeter than ever, and for a little while, the whole garden seemed to breathe again.

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