The figs are here...
and I'm as happy as a clam.
"They're almost too sweet." Roberto said.
I was in full agreement. Nodding my head. Pulling apart a second fig.
Figs on toast, I thought.
My fingers are sticky, I thought.
If I get up and rinse them they'll only get sticky again, I thought.
It will be us against the blackbirds (the fig tree has to be netted). They are rather skilled. Landing on the fence. Jumping into the garden. Fluttering their way up to a branch. Pecking, pecking, pecking.
Zara will have to work harder for her supper.
"Get the birds, Zara!"
But it's so hot out there. She doesn't want to go outside. She doesn't seem to give a damn about birds or peanuts these days. Lazy bones spread eagle on the tiled floor, sleeping, waiting for dinner scraps.
Roberto's mother gives Zara a scrap.
Roberto's father gives Zara a scrap.
My eyes survey the pan of goat in search of a tiny piece. "Don't give her that piece. It's the best part." Roberto says. I look again. "That's good too."
"It's so tiny." I say while pulling it from the pan.
Zara takes the tiny piece of goat from my fingers and swallows it whole.
"Does she like figs?" I ask.