Fig Basket, Villa Poppaea, Oplontis
Figs
D.H. Lawrence
The proper way to eat a fig, in society,
Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,
And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.
Then you throw away the skin
Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,
After you have taken off the blossom with your lips.
Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite.
Every fruit has its secret.
The fig is a very secretive fruit.
As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic:
But when you come to know it better, you agree with the Romans, it is female.
The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part; the fig-fruit:
The wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre.
The flowering all inward and womb-fibrilled;
The fig, the horse-shoe, the squash-blossom.
There was a flower that flowered inward, womb-ward;
Now there is a fruit like a ripe womb.
That’s how it should be, the female should always be secret.
There never was any standing aloft and unfolded on a bough
Like other flowers, in a revelation of petals;
Silver-pink peach, venetian green glass of medlars and sorb-apples,
Shallow wine-cups on short, bulging stems
Here’s to the thorn in flower! Here is to Utterance!
The brave, adventurous rosaceæ.
Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,
And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,
Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won’t taste it;
Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman,
Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,
One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from the light;
Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward,
Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness,
Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilisation, and fruiting
In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see
Till it’s finished, and you’re over-ripe, and you burst to give up your ghost.
Till the drop of ripeness exudes,
And then the fig has kept her secret long enough.
So it explodes, and you see through the fissure the scarlet.
And the fig is finished, the year is over.
That’s how the fig dies, showing her crimson through the purple slit
Like a wound, the exposure of her secret, on the open day.
Like a prostitute, the bursten fig, making a show of her secret.
That’s how women die too.
The year is fallen over-ripe,
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.
And rottenness soon sets in.
The year of our women is fallen over-ripe.
When Eve once knew in her mind that she was naked
She quickly sewed fig-leaves, and sewed the same for the man.
She’d been naked all her days before,
But till then, till that apple of knowledge, she hadn’t had the fact on her mind.
She got the fact on her mind, and quickly sewed fig-leaves.
And women have been sewing ever since.
But now they stitch to adorn the bursten fig, not to cover it.
They have their nakedness more than ever on their mind,
And they won’t let us forget it.
Becomes an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips
That laugh at the Lord’s indignation.
What then, good Lord! cry the women.
We have kept our secret long enough.
Let us burst into affirmation.
They forget, ripe figs won’t keep.
Honey-white figs of the north, black figs with scarlet inside, of the south.
Ripe figs won’t keep, won’t keep in any clime.
What then, when women the world over have all bursten into self-assertion?
And bursten figs won’t keep?
Fig Tart with Limoncello and Thyme
(Serves 6 to 8)
For the crust:
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
4 tablespoons sugar
A pinch of salt
2 tablespoons Limoncello
1¾ cups all-purpose flour
4 thyme sprigs, the leaves lightly chopped
For the custard:
¾ cup non-ultrapasteurized heavy cream
1 large egg
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon Limoncello
The grated zest from 1 lemon
4 thyme sprigs, the leaves lightly chopped
1 teaspoon finely ground flour, such as Wondra
Plus:
15 or 16 fresh figs, either black or green, cut in half lengthwise
Extra sugar for the top
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
In a small saucepan, melt the butter. Add the olive oil to the butter, give it a stir, and then let the butter mixture cool completely. With a pastry brush, use about a tablespoon of the melted butter mixture to coat a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom.
To make the crust: In a medium bowl, combine the remaining butter mixture with the sugar, salt, Limoncello, and about a tablespoon of water. Stir to blend. Add the flour and the thyme, and mix briefly until you have a mass of moist, crumbly dough (don’t blend so much that it forms a ball). Tip the dough into the tart pan, and pat it down and out to the edges and all the way up the side to form a thin crust. Bake for about 15 minutes, until lightly colored and slightly puffy.
In a small bowl, combine all the ingredients for the custard, and whisk until they’re well blended.
Place the figs, cut side up, in the crust, in a slightly overlapping circular pattern. Pour the custard evenly over the figs, and sprinkle the top with sugar. Bake until the crust is golden and the custard is set, about 45 minutes. Let sit for about ½ hour before serving.
Erica De Mane 
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