Figs

I haven't quite stooped to the level of the artichoke in the bathroom blip of despair, but this comes pretty close.

A bowl of ripe figs from our neighbour Lucienne's garden. Since her husband Fernand died, it's sadly neglected, but the fig and apple trees still bear abundant fruit. After I took this photo I put them in a gratin dish, sprinkled them with a little sugar and a glass of Moscatel de Malaga, and baked them in a low oven for an hour, before eating three of them with a generous dollop of crème fraîche. The moscatel went with them even better than the local muscat I normally use.