Figs are an interesting part of my childhood. Granddad used to plant fig trees everywhere he lived. They grew to be magnificent things 10 or 12 feet high, and just as wide. The fruit would come each summer and rippen to a golden rust, with some purple mixed in. When you broke them open, the salmon cololored flesh would be a feast for the eyes and the tastebuds. There was only one problem -- yellow jackets loved to build their nests in the trees. The large green leaves hid them from view, and I always wound up with a sting or two. Definitely not worth the effort in my view!
These figs have already escaped and found their way to a bowl, so I painted them to pay homage to my Granddad. More about him later.