The 4th means figs are ready. Piles of sweet, sexy figs.
I never liked figs until I had my own tree--which is not of my own choosing. It's because someone before me planted it. Thought about it, but I didn't have the heart to take an axe to it. I remember as a child reading in my Little House books that Laura was told it's wicked to step on wildflowers. That's always stuck with me and I've taken it very seriously.
So my tree still stands.
Some people couldn't hurt a fly.
I couldn't hurt a fig.
Truthfully, I've come to like them. I've come to appreciate their ephemeral nature. And their unusual reproductive anatomy. The flowers are hidden inside what amounts to a swollen, fleshy stem--the part we call the fruit. Some varieties are pollinated by tiny fig wasps, which enter a hole in the swollen stem. And it's all about the birds & the bees (& tiny wasps) from there.
For a long time I wouldn't try figs. Because I knew that the pollinator wasps die inside the figs after crawling around in there transferring pollen from flower to flower. They also lay their eggs inside the structure. Sometimes science is good for a bad case of the heebie jeebies. But good news. Common backyard fig varieties don't require this dying for a cause pollination. So the crunchy stuff inside of the figs, well, it's just seeds.
So I can enjoy fig pies, fig cookies, fig cake, and my mom & dad's favorite: Amaretto Figs...without any extra protein.