Wrath, Interrupted (By Figs)

Well. Not wrath, exactly. Not full-blown wrath. Maybe the occasional surge of tightly-wound fury. Or deep, simmering annoyance. But yes—definitely figs.

This summer has been one of change. Of quiet, surprising shifts. A summer full of detours. A different experience of this place, these people, this version of life. Of course, the entire year has been one long sequence of the unexpected—thanks, in large part, to the surprise arrival of that spiky little microscopic menace we’ve all grown to know and loathe: Mr Corona.

For most of the spring, I didn’t think I’d be here at all. My 14 May flight was cancelled, replaced with a vague voucher and a foggy promise of ‘some day’. That I’m even writing this from here feels faintly miraculous, stitched together by online teaching, a reasonably priced flight, and a foolhardy confidence in my ability to share air with 200 strangers in masks of wildly differing reliability.

But the biggest difference this summer—aside from the silence—is the absence of people doing what they usually do. There are no evening passeggiate, no lazy strolls arm in arm under the cooling dusk. The festivals have gone quiet. Our own beloved Festa di San Donato was stripped back to its bones—just the religious ceremony, and none of the charming chaos. No tacky inflatable toys, no paper cones of lupini or salted peanuts. Nor wafts of porchetta or sizzling chips from food trucks. No bar with its freezer chest of gelato artigianale. If I want a decent scoop, I have to drive fifteen minutes now. It’s good gelato, admittedly. But still.

I miss my short walk to Bar Viale. Miss the coppa piccola, half fondente, half pistacchio. I used to sit there, plastic spoon in hand, listening to the old men bicker over cards or yell at the match blaring from the outdoor telly. No one urges me in for a coffee anymore. No one offers cake with the gentle menace of a mamma who will not take no for an answer. I haven’t had to worry about saying no to food—for the first time in a decade, the doors have stayed mostly closed. The invitations have dried up.

And—I missed the June fig harvest. I wasn’t here. Can I tell you how much I adore figs? Back home in the States, I practically haunt the produce section of any supermarket that stocks them. I hoard them, giddily, knowing they’ll spoil if I blink too slowly. I slice them, drizzle them with miele di castagno—that rich, dark chestnut honey—and call it dinner. It’s the one thing I eat with complete abandon.

The next harvest’s in September. Whether it arrives before I fly back is anyone’s guess.

But then—two days ago—on one of my twice-weekly jog/slogs down the dusty back road west of town, I spotted them. A flash of purple tucked beneath that unmistakable green leaf, all crenellated and figgy and promising. Ripe. I marked the spot and kept running, or something close to it.

The return leg is mostly uphill. Usually a bit of a trudge. But that day, I was running on something stronger than motivation. I was hunting. Eyes scanning the hedgerows like a wolf in Lycra. And there it was, right where I remembered—just past the farm with the tomatoes propped up on bamboo teepees. I stopped, breathless. And picked. One fig. Then two. Three. A half dozen. I bent the branches towards me. Ripped the fruit from them. Stuffed every pocket I had. Emptied my water bottle and filled it with figs. Rip. Tear. Grab.

It wasn’t just about figs anymore. I was hoarding a summer that never happened. Grasping at everything I had missed. Everything that had been taken. I wanted it all back, needed something to hold. I became frantic. Wild-eyed. Grief-stricken and oddly triumphant. My hands shook. My throat caught. I wept, just a little, as I picked. Not just for the fruit, but for the whole bloody mess of it all.

Eventually, full and slightly mad, I jogged home. Cradling my water bottle like a relic. Careful not to trip on the gravel, lest I tumble and squish the precious cargo—my soft, sticky souvenirs of normality.

Now, they sit on the table, washed and waiting. I’m hoping they’re ripe, hoping they’re sweet. I’m hoping they’ll somehow fill the space that’s been hollowed out this summer.

But even if they don’t—if they turn out to be ornamental disappointments—I know this much: there are still sunsets. Still flowers are blooming across my terrazzo. The mountains haven’t moved. They’re still out there, shrugging at all this, as they always have. Stillness. Strength. Permanence.

And there are changes, too, that are new. And good. A new fountain on the belvedere. A new way of seeing the old view.

Maybe that’s the point that change doesn’t mean the end. Perhaps it just means you harvest things at a different time, in a different way. Maybe it just means learning to love what’s left. Or what’s new. Or what’s possible.

Maybe.This article was adapted from my original blogpost published on Casa da Carmine.