the editor talks with you

One of our eagle-eyed reporters rushed into our office, breathless with exciting news: A catastrophe was at hand What catastrophe? his jaded editor asked. “Fig newtons,” he announced dramatically. “Have you tried to buy any lately?.” I’ll admit I like fig newtons but they are rarely high on my shopping list. “I’ve been unable to find a single box on the shelves at three groceries,” he said. “Did you ask the managers why?” “No, but I can,” he said. “Why waste time like that?” “Because it’s a story,” he said. “The Case of the Vanishing Fig Newtons.”

Editors have to allow for some peculiarities in their reporters. He was a Sherlock Holmes and Philip Marlowe fan. I agreed he could take time to check it out. In the journalism racket, we are dedicated to checking things out. One of our favorite sayings is, “If your mother says she loves you, check it out.” So he checked it out and I will tell you what he found in a minute. But first, I want you to know the rest of the story. One of the first assignments that students in my university reporting classes received was – you guessed it – “The Case of the Vanishing Fig Newtons.” It would take 50 minutes for me to lead them through the “checking out” process. What they found is what our eagle-eyed reporter found. A fig blight in Mexico and workers’ strike in California had shut down the fig business. The bakers couldn’t get them so the stores couldn’t get them either. Case solved. Journalism triumphs again.

Figs and I have been in love all my life. Our sons and I planted a fig tree behind our home more than 30 years ago. It grew into a monster. Under its wide canopy in mid-summer each year, it hides luscious figs behind its wide leaves. Picking figs is like hunting Easter eggs. Finding the ripe ones is half the fun. The other half is preserving and eating them for breakfast on croissants or hot toast on cold winter mornings. You can taste the summer in them.

Since our sons are grown and my bride isn’t interested, I have been harvesting that monster tree’s bounty for the last week. Every other evening, I walk down to the tree with plastic buckets and 20 minutes later the buckets are full. In the kitchen they are lovingly washed and sliced in half. They soak in fresh water for another 30 minutes while a syrup of water and sugar heats on the range. Then they go into this hit, sugary bath and a few hours later emerge, ready to slip into canning jars and await breakfast. I would gladly share the recipe with you but it is a state secret. You would need a Top Secret clearance for it. We don’t even let Congress take a peek.

My bride, no fig fancier herself, has found a recipe for fig chutney. She wants me to make a few jars for her. She fell in love with chutney when an Indian neighbor showed her how to make it. Maybe I will win her over to fig fandom. At least I may keep her happy. Few things in life are sweeter than a happy wife.

Have a story to share?

Send Jerry Bellune your story about your own life’s journey and we will share it with other readers. You can email him at JerryBellune@yahoo.com