Jim Bradshaw: No lemon peel for Grandma's heavenly figs

From the earliest days I can remember, the beginning of July has been the beginning of fig season, the time when grandkids were dispatched to the back yard to pick fruit from eight big trees and my grandmother cooked fig preserves by the dish-pan-full.

Until I went away to college it never occurred to me that it was possible to have a meal — morning, noon, or night — without a jar of fig preserves on the table.

My grandfather was in charge of keeping the trees healthy and filled with figs each year.

He swore that the secret was to let the chickens run beneath the trees.

They scratched at the soil, helping to bring air to the tree roots and, of course, naturally fertilized the ground.

He also trimmed two of the trees almost to the ground each year in a regular rotation that kept the trees to a size where all of the figs could be reached.

“I grow ‘em for your grandmother, not for the birds to eat,” he said.

And my grandmother needed all the figs she could get. She made enough preserves to keep her extended family supplied until the next season and to distribute to friends far and wide.

Nobody left her house without a jar of preserves, but they had to promise to return the empty jar to be used next year.

People kept their promises, and returned the jars to be stored away (mouth down) on a long shelf in Grandad’s work shed until next fig season.

My grandmother became so well known for her figs that one of the eulogists at her funeral said her role in heaven was likely to be handing out preserves to newcomers at the Pearly Gates

That eulogy has the ring of truth to me.

I know that she gave them to saints on earth. I vividly remember the day when I, a lad of about 10, was in line behind her to go to confession.

When she — a good, pious woman — failed to emerge after what seemed like half an hour, I, knowing full well that I was condemning my young soul to Hades, had to edge closer to the curtained confessional to hear what she could possibly be confessing for all that time.

When I did, I heard Monsignor Boudreaux, wearily replying, apparently for the umpteenth time, “No, Aunt Bab, we don’t need any more fig preserves. You left plenty at the rectory.”

We also ate fresh figs doused liberally with cream and sugar for breakfast, but the preserves were the thing, made according to a recipe that I still use:

4 quarts of figs with stems
1 tablespoon of baking soda
3 quarts of boiling water
8 cups of sugar (4 pounds)
1 quart of water

Place the figs in a large bowl and sprinkle them with baking soda. Pour over them three quarts of boiling water and soak the figs for one hour.

Drain the figs and rinse them thoroughly in cold water. Combine eight cups of sugar and one quart of water in a large Dutch oven. Bring the mixture to a boil and let it simmer for 10 minutes.

Add the figs to the syrup. Cook them about one hour, stirring about every 15 minutes. Figs should be tender and clear when done. Spoon the figs into hot, sterilized jars.

Wipe the rims of the jars with a damp towel and make sure the lids are tight. Process the jars in boiling water for 5 minutes. This makes about eight pints.

You will notice there is no lemon peel in this recipe.

Adding it to fig preserves, in my grandmother’s eyes, was not only the wrong way to cook figs, but something of a social or moral failing.

“She’s a nice woman,” she’d say sadly of a neighbor, “but you know she puts lemon peel in her preserves.”

You could infer from her tone and sadness that someone who committed such a folly probably took an occasional nip from the cooking sherry and often voted wrong at election time.

One must treat these people kindly, of course, but must also worry over what will become of them.

It is not often that I speak ex cathedra, with the same authority as the Pope, but I can guarantee this: If you go to heaven, and Aunt Bab is passing out preserves, don’t expect lemons peel.

You can contact Jim Bradshaw at jimbradshaw4321@gmail.com or P.O. Box 1121, Washington LA 70589.