Antidote to Melancholy (and a recipe for fig tarte)

I fold away the last pillowcase and box up their little cups stamped with jousting knights and damsels in distress and sit myself down under the old tree.   End of summer light flutters through the leaves, golden and dappled with the sound of small voices fading away.

In August we live their resounding chaos and joy.   They shriek in the dark, dashing about in the fear/thrill game that their uncles and fathers embroider from their own childhood.   They scrutinise lizards losing tails and ask me serious questions about death.  They tumble insouciant on the lawn at golden hour while their parents sip rosé under this old tree.

 

And then they vanish.

 

When I was a child myself, I lived for the chaos of my older brother’s exuberance.   One abrupt morning, I watched them troop off to school, in slick new haircuts and glistening satchels.  I played with their toys listlessly, in silence permeated by that terrible, beautiful, fragile, end of summer light.

From that time I became a casualty to end of summer melancholy, arrested by  golden August light and the echoes of wee, lilting voices.

 

And suddenly it is September.   I shake myself like an animal shaking off a close call.   Harvest day cares not for an etat d’ame.   The grapes are coming in, the juice is flowing and we are birthing the new Rosé.

I’m testing for density and degree, John is clamouring to the top of the tank, the children call with a million enthusiastic questions – yield, acidity, flavour profile…        I can barely hear them above the noisy cooling machine, so they shout – “We miss you! Harvest day! Always so exciting!”

48 hours later, John appears at my window with the first run of the new wine.   He offers me the first taste.   I hold my breath.   I remember our first Rosé harvest many years ago.   Henri kicked up his heels, high in the air, singing: “when you drink this, you will feel like – this!”

Yes.   Perfect.   Pink and delicious and makes me want to kick up my heels.

 

And poof.   Just like that.   The light has changed.   It is white.  Invigorating.   The September air is crisp, inviting me to pack a new satchel and start a new year.

As the wind picks up, the small voices fade.    I wonder:  to what end that annual bout of melancholy, that arresting, sometimes paralysing state of mind…

But John interrupts my reverie; he is hauling in a basket laden with ripe figs.

There is nothing like a fresh, just-plucked fig.   Bursting with flavour, but difficult to transport and impossible to preserve.   The pleasure of a moment.

Sometimes I think of the fig as a poignant antidote to melancholy.   And sometimes they seem melancholy incarnate.  

Certainly they are a lush reminder that nothing lasts.     A reminder to be present when the voices return.  

 

 

 

Recipe for savoury fig tarte:

 

Easy recipe for savoury fig tarte:

2 dozen figs cut in half

75 grams pine nuts

150 grams feta cheese

pastry crust 

Honey Mustard Balsamic Sauce :

2 tablespoons dijon mustard 

1 tablespoon liquid honey

2 teaspoons balsamic vinegar  (or more to taste) 

a few drops soy sauce 

a dash of salt & pepper 

Pre bake the crust and let it cool;

Lay the figs out on the crust; 

Crumble the feta cheese on the figs;

Sprinkle the pine nuts;

Drizzle the sauce;

Bake 1/2 hour at 170 ° C