I hate summer. Hate it. I hate it so much that when I was required to write a poem for a Creative Writing unit I did at University a few years ago, I decided to write an anti-ode to summer. Here it is:
Summer’s breath of unpitying intent scorches land into
While we marinate in merciless sweat
The cantankerous sun lasers hard-won melanomas into foreheads
Then leaves the scene of the crime
Capricious storms are left to finish the job
Summer, you are a sick joke
See, I told you I hate summer. And I didn’t even mention stuff like humidity, mosquito bites, endless lawn mowing and snakes.
Summer’s only saving grace as far as I can see is culinary, speci
fically, cherries, mangoes and figs. And happily, these fruits come into season sequentially, so I can savour cherries before Christmas, slurp on mangoes afterwards working up to my very favourite, figs.
Now, we don’t grow cherries or mangoes where we are. It’s too warm for cherries and too cool for mangoes. But for figs it is just right. We have one producing fig tree, nearly four years old, which has been fruiting for two years for not much effort. Fruit fly doesn’t seem to like these babies, fortunately.
At the moment, it is all systems go with our figs.
I have been eating 1-2 figs a day for the last two weeks, we have such a glut that I fear we are going to end up feeding figs to chooks so I am going to have a go at fig jam. I’ll let you know how we go.