By Adua Santarelli
My Nonna in Porto San Giorgio, Italy, had a small farm with lots of fig trees. When I was 7 or 8, I rode my bike to the farm every day to see how quickly the figs were growing. Nonna said, “Don’t go tomorrow, they haven’t grown.” When the skin started to crack, they were ready, and Nonno, my grandfather, put a stepladder for me to pick some figs.
I loved those sweet figs, green on the outside, but bright red inside.
Most of their figs were sold but some were dried on the balcony. When there were no more fresh figs on the tree, I would “steal” some dried figs, but my Nonna always knew when I’d taken them, because she lined them up and could see the gaps. She would say, “Go on eating them, but there will be none left for winter and I won’t be able to make cakes.”
I remember her cakes well. When the figs were still soft, Nonna chopped them into small pieces and put them into a sponge mixture, flavoured with cinnamon, and baked the cake in in a ring tin. I can still recall the taste of the fresh figs, the dried figs and the lovely cake she made. I loved discovering the figs in the cake and enjoyed every mouthful.
Even though I’ve brought so many food traditions with me and cook so many Italian recipes here in Australia, I’ve not cooked with figs myself. I don’t think I could actually re-create my Nonna’s recipe, but it gives me great pleasure just to remember those figs and my wonderful grandparents.