The Sweetest Fruit

“Oh the foes will rise with the sleep still in their eyes
And they’ll jerk from their beds and think they’re dreamin’
But they’ll pinch themselves and squeal
and they’ll know that it’s for real
The hour that the ship comes in”

— Bob Dylan

It was at least a dozen years ago, Barbara was getting some landscaping done in our wild, unruly back yard. She asked me if there were any plants or shrubbery that I might like.

“A fig tree,” I replied.

I had visions of sitting under my proverbial fig tree in peace and prosperity and enjoying the bounty of ripe fruit that it was sure to produce.

The fig tree arrived in the form of little more than a stick and I knew it would be many years before it would be large enough to sit under never mind bear fruit. The same year, a neighbor was digging up a more mature (but not by much) fig tree in her yard and asked on the list serve if anyone wanted it. I responded and soon I had it planted next to the other one. Probably too close.

A few of those early years had very cold winters and I was sure that the trees had died but every spring they came back to life. There is an injunction in Jewish law that prohibits harvesting the fruit of a tree for the first three years of its life. Suffice it to say, I never faced any temptation to violate this commandment.

Then around year five, one of the trees produced exactly one fig. I plucked it when ripe and shared it with my wife and daughter and son-in-law who were visiting for lunch. We said the blessing for eating a fruit or doing a thing for the first time in its season.

Blessed are you, source of life, who has given us life, sustained us, and allowed us to reach this moment.

In each subsequent year, the harvest increased a little but very few of the fruits ended up in our larder or tummies.

It turned out that the figs ripened in mid to late August exactly when we are usually away on vacation. By the time we returned home, the trees which had been laden with green fruit when we left had been stripped bare by squirrels, birds, and deer. For a while, we had a groundhog living in a space under the concrete steps that lead to an exit door from the basement. My friend Tom says he sometimes saw the groundhog in the tree happily munching away.

This summer, the trees filled up with the most fruit, I have ever seen on them. Perhaps it was the enormous quantity of rain we got in June and July and the hot humid days we had this summer. I didn’t expect to eat many, however. In late July, with the trees heavy with unripe figs we headed up north for several weeks of biking, hiking and camping on Cape Cod and in the Adirondacks.

Imagine my surprise, when we returned home last week and found the trees full of ripe, purple figs!. Many of them had been nibbled to be sure but there were plenty that were intact. I went out in the cool of the evening and picked a large bowl of them getting eaten in turn by a swarm of gnats sending me running to find the hydrocortisone cream.

The figs were ripe, many overripe and decisions had to be made quickly. A ripe fig doesn’t last long. I though about trying to dry them in the oven but I had bad luck with that last year burning all ten of the figs I got to an inedible crisp.

I decided to make jam, which is easy to do and hard to mess up. You just boil the fruit with water.  I added some lemon juice for brightness and the lemon seeds for the pectin. After fishing out the seeds, I weighed the water and fruit and added the same weight of sugar and cooked it until it got thick with big bubbles and congealed on a plate that had been in the freezer. I got more than  2 pounds of the stuff. I didn’t properly preserve it so it has to be keep in the refrigerator. However, it keeps for a long time because it is basically solid sugar with some fig in it. Still it is very tasty and goes great on a slice of sourdough bread (homemade, of course) with some creamy goat cheese.

I had just finished making the jam when Tom’s wife, Christine, stopped by. She had brought us a gift. It was a whale butter dish like the one I had been tempted by on Nantucket but hadn’t bought. She had found it online at a very reasonable price, she proudly told us. We sent her off with a jar of still-warm jam and half a loaf of sourdough that I had also made that day.

Good things come in the fullness of time though they may not line up exactly with the original vision. I had imagined sitting under my fig trees as ripe fruit dropped into my lap. The reality is sitting on the screened porch (no gnats!) and enjoying fig jam and butter from a blue whale on fresh bread.

And still more figs ripen everyday. As we enjoy these cooler evenings dining on the porch, after dinner I walk out to the fig trees and pick a handful to enjoy as dessert. My patience paid off. The ship has come in. I pinch myself and squeal.

Here is a poem I wrote about figs, jam, and the ephemeral.

Elul

We arrived home to find the tree heavy

with fruit, some rotting,

bees delirious with their good fortune.

Today, we blessed the new month

the year’s farewell.

The sun sleeps in.  Already, it is cooler.

Days feel snug like last year’s jacket.

Fig jam bubbles on the stove —

summer surrendering her sweetness.

***

The world’s a narrow bridge; fear nothing.

Signal and Noise

“The signal is the truth. The noise is what distracts us from the truth. ”

— Nate Silver

Our world is saturated with human made noise. From the hum of the refrigerator to the sounds of cars and airplanes, the cacophony of the modern world is almost inescapable. 

Much of this noise is unnecessary. For example, many cars honk each time they are locked or unlocked. On most cars that can be disabled but few people take the trouble to do it. Or perhaps they like the honking. 

I’ve been in doctor’s waiting rooms where up to three different individuals were listening to some kind of programming on their phones with the speaker blasting at full volume, or having loud public phone conversations. Simple wired earbuds can be had for just a few dollars. 

As I write this piece in a relatively quiet vacation rental I still hear traffic sounds, an airplane, the ticking of a clock, and the churning of the dishwasher. 

Once you notice how noisy the world is, you can’t un-hear it (you’re welcome).

So, if you have a chance to escape the din for a moment or two, you must take a moment to notice and savor it. 

I had an opportunity to be in such a place this past week but it wasn’t easy to get to. 

The Adirondack State Park in the northeast corner of New York State is the largest state park in the U.S. other than those in Alaska. The park is partly developed but it has some large tracts of complete wilderness as well. Much of this wilderness contains the High Peaks, a group of 46 mountains each of which is more than 4,000ft/1,300m above sea level. Barbara and I decided to climb one of the more remote peaks called Seymour Mountain. 

In order to get to the base of Seymour, we had to drive 40 minutes from Lake Placid to the tiny town of Corey, N.Y. From there you turn down a country road which eventually becomes unpaved. Then it’s another 5 miles of gravel to get to the trail head. After parking and signing in at the register (safety!), you hike about 6 miles on a marked trail to arrive at the base of the mountain. The trail to the summit is unmarked and the place at which you turn off the main trail is marked only with a pile of rocks called a cairn. 

The ‘herd path,’ created by thousands of hikers having gone before, passes through dense woods but is easy to follow. The trail ascends along a brook to gain about 2,000ft/660m of elevation over the course of about 1.5 miles/2.4km to reach a viewless summit among thick trees. 

Somewhere along this ascent, I paused to give my pounding heart a respite. Barbara was a few hundred feet ahead, and as the panting of my breath began to still, I slowly became aware of the quiet. Not a lack of sound. The forest was filled with birdsong, insect noise and the burbling of the creek. But not a human sound to be heard save the beating of my own heart. No airplanes, no cars, not even the footsteps of another person. 

I tried to recall the last time I was in such a place. It may have been when I was in these woods two years ago. How many more times will I have the privilege to stand somewhere like this? How can we hope to remain tuned to the signal when we dwell among constant human noise? And the noisiest place of all? It may be your own mind. 

The world’s a narrow bridge; fear nothing. 

Cannibals of Nantucket

My first clue that we had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd came as we made coffee in the van at 07:00 in the ferry parking lot. Volvos, Mercedes, and Land Rovers arriving in a steady stream disgorged nattily dressed young couples and their fair-haired children in summer frocks and soccer jerseys. The daddies all wore polo shirts, crisp white or salmon-colored shorts, and Docksider boat shoes while the mommies sported light cotton sun-dresses or tennis skirts and sandals.

In my generic black t-shirt and cargo pants (neither fresh from the laundry) I felt that I was bringing down the general ambience of the parking lot considerably.

As ferry time was approaching and we still needed to figure out exactly where the dock was, we gulped the last of our coffee, lifted the bikes from the rack and headed toward the terminal.

The Fast Ferry (one hour to the island) is $66 per person for a day trip out and back. An extra $16 per person allowed us to bring our bikes on the boat and also to board first giving us our pick of seats. We chose to sit outside on the upper deck and soon Hyannis Port was disappearing behind us as we headed toward the island.

I first heard of Nantucket when I read Moby Dick by Herman Melville in my second semester of Freshman English. Moby Dick, written in 1851, was inspired by the sinking of a real ship, the Essex, a whaling vessel that sailed from Nantucket in August of 1819 on what was supposed to be the 21 year-old ship’s final voyage.

It certainly was.

Some 1,600 km west of the Galápagos Islands in the Pacific, the Essex was attacked and sunk by a Sperm Whale. The crew of 21 men were forced to abandon ship dispersing into three small whaling boats.

The nearest inhabited land was the Polynesian Islands but the crew believed those islands were inhabited by cannibals (they weren’t) and opted instead to try for a land mass nearly three times as far away.

It was a mistake that would cost them dearly. In the end, only 10 men survived, some of the deceased having been shot and eaten by their mates thus finding their greatest fears realized in a tragic, ironic twist worthy of the ancient Greek playwrights.

Herman Melville visited Nantucket just once in 1852, a year AFTER the publication of Moby Dick so I did have some inclination that he might not be the most reliable narrator of its charms, especially, more than 125 years later, but I was not prepared for what we would find.

Hint: we did not find a quaint old whaling port.

At 09:30 Barbara and I came rolling off the ferry and into the biggest traffic jam this side of the Mass. Turnpike. The town of Nantucket where the ferries dock, was clogged with Jeeps, Land Rovers, and massive SUVs most of them new, shiny, and astonishingly clean. There were plenty of well-heeled pedestrians clogging the roads as well. The streets were lined with boutiques, gift shops, ice cream parlors, electric bike and scooter rentals, and cafe style eateries all of which had long lines snaking out onto the narrow congested sidewalks.

We took a quick look and headed on our battery-free bikes for the shared path toward the town of Siasconset, on the eastern side of the Island. Parts of the trail passed through some lovely woods and scrub brush but much of it was along side a busy highway where cars and eighteen-wheeled trucks whizzed by.

A few hours later we arrived on the eastern side of the island, which did afford us a fine view of the Sankaty Head Lighthouse, which has been calling out stern alarms and merry meetings since 1850. Standing sentry amongst the wind-swept grass at the edge of the glimmering sea, it is perhaps the most idyllic spot on the whole island.

The town of “S’conset” as it is known, is less so. The weathered cottages are charming enough until you realize that they go for $2.5 million and up for a fixer-upper that could use a few hundred thousand dollars worth of “TLC” just to make it sea worthy. Most are in the $8 million plus range. The median house price on the island is $1.3 million.

In the center is a little market that sells essentials, snacks and a few baked goods. Having had just a hard-boiled egg and coffee for breakfast many hours ago and with many kilometers of biking ahead we splurged on a pre-made tuna wrap and a croissant for $22. The area around the market was crammed with more upscale vehicles, their important looking owners, and their children.

When we got back to the port, we found we still had another two hours before our return ferry back to Cape Cod departed. After scarfing two slices of street pizza ($17.14) and enjoying an ice cold Diet Coke ($3.00), Barbara opted for a bit more bike riding (of course!) while I, more or less pooped decided on a visit to the Nantucket Historical Association’s Museum of Whaling (Adult Admission $25).

There a young man, who presented as more ivy league than hardtack, told a 45 minute story about the aforementioned Essex, which left me just enough time to dash around the museum and quickly take in the displays on whaling, lamp oil, and 19th Century ship construction. The museum shop offered the usual assortment of coffee, mugs, t-shirts, and refrigerator magnets all cheerily embossed with figures of earth’s larges sea mammals. I passed on the opportunity to purchase a souvenir and left as empty handed as the survivors of the Essex arriving home in 1821 though I admit I was tempted by a whale shaped butter dish made of blue glass ($38).

I met up with B and we had just enough time to enjoy two small cups of gourmet ice cream ($26.01) as we waited for the ferry to whisk us back. Reflecting on our day, we decided to scrap our planned journey to Martha’s Vineyard on the morrow since, as far as we could tell, it would offer much of the same. Frankly, I didn’t think we could afford it! Instead we decided to remain on the Cape and bike the lovely, scenic, and quiet Cape Cod Rail Trail (free).

Disembarking the ferry, we cycled back to the van and then drove through more horrible traffic back to the town of Brewster where our campsite and supper awaited. On the dinner menu: spaghetti and tomato sauce prepared on the Coleman camp stove, and salad with vinaigrette dressing. Dinner for two including the stove fuel and a few glasses of wine from a box: $5.75.

Our modest meal included no human nor any other kind of animal flesh, but it was one for which the hungry sailors of the Essex would have, no doubt, been grateful. I certainly was.

The world’s a narrow bridge; fear nothing.