Finally, figs

Figs have a certain mystique all their own, a reputation as a sensuous, aphrodisiac fruit. They were said to be Cleopatra's favourite fruit, and a gift from the god of wine and merrymaking, Bacchus. So there was a weight of expectation when I bit into my first fig many years ago. But those first tenatative bites didn't make me a convert. I still didn't see what all the fuss was about. You want sensuous fruit? Try a Philippine mango, eat it warm and juicy over the kitchen sink with the juice running down your chin as you sink your teeth into that golden, sweet-perfumed goodness. As for those figs, they were sweet, they were soft. But that was it.

When H brought home a tray of purple California figs a few days ago I had another chance to fall in love with this fruit, and yet eating the fresh figs still didn't make a convert of me.

By chance, tonight I decided to roast the figs. Et voila! I can say I now like figs 100% more.

Roasting figs: nothing could be easier. Split each fig in two, lay on a nonstick baking sheet, scatter some thyme leaves, add a cube of butter to each fig, and drizzle generously with honey and freshly squeezed orange juice. Bake in a preheated 400 F oven.

Roasting unveiled the succulence, the sweetness of this fruit for me. Thyme (a mix of lemon thyme and plain thyme from the garden) added a cool herbal note. The drizzle of honey paired well with the faint richness of the butter and the tang of lemon juice. Tomorrow, we will feast on these figs, with a scatter of walnuts.