What Do To With Mushy Figs

When I lived in Brazil, I used to get boxes of figs for R$2,50 during the fig season. Thats ten gorgeously plump, perfectly ripe, bursting with figgyness figs for about a dollar (at least when I lived there). My search for cheap and luscious figs became almost obsessive, and I would scorn the fool who tried to pawn a R$4,00 or even R$5,00 box off on unsuspecting amateurs. These delicious Brazilian figs remain elusive in America, where supermarkets can get away with charging $5 or even $8 for four shriveled little figs that resemble the unmentionables of those not of my gender. Gross. That image alone was enough to shake my addiction (but I'm sorry if it put you all off figs forever, if Sex and the City hadn't already done so).

But my latent addiction was awakened briefly at the sign of some plump, sprightly little Mission figs at my local Whole Paycheck. I caved...I bought them...coveted my little purchase like a prize fighter...I at least waited until being outside to dig in.

And promptly spit that slimy mass of tasteless seeds all over the sidewalk!

But now, I find myself with a basket of tasty-looking (but not tasty-tasting) figs and, true to frugal form, can't bring myself to throw them away. While brewing a big batch of hibiscus tea, the thought came to me. I love that ridiculously expensive fig-black pepper compote that was regularly sampled at the Ann Arbor Whole Paycheck, and the floral depth of hibiscus might compensate for the lack of decent balsamic vingar in my kitchen. Into another saucepan go diced figs, a glug of hibiscus tea, a squizzle of honey, a pinch of salt and a few (very few - like 5) black peppercorns. Set it to simmer, stir frequently while enjoying a cup of hibiscus tea (or hibiscus sangria, if you roll that way) and wait until the mixture is thick and the figs have melted into a rich fruity mess.

So delicious! Shown here with my obscenely self-congratulating meal of Acme Bread green onion slab, Barely Buzzed Cheddar from Beehive Cheese, and a glass of $9 screw-top Carmenére with a fancy schmancy label.