Choosing figs is a delicate, but essential, business. Good figs are heavenly. Not so good figs are unedible. A fig typically has one good day in its short life. To add to the difficulty, the fig season is short, a few weeks at most, providing very little opportunity for practice. So here are some pointers:
The colour: A good fig is purple. It can be reddish-purple, dark-bluish purple, or purple-purple, but it shouldn't be green, yellow or brown. Not even in one spot. Nor should it be covered in fungi. Always lift the fig out of the box to inspect the bottom, that's where the rot appears first.
The skin: The skin of a good fig is taut, ready to burst. In fact, a good fig often does burst when touched (in which case, you have to eat it immediately, once open they are only good for a few minutes, so always calculate in your budget the figs you will eat as part of the search). Do not purchase any wrinkly figs.
The firmness: A ripe fig has a thin skin, the thick white layer between the skin and the flesh having been reduced in the ripening process to a mere millimiter. This explains the above-mentioned bursting risk. Any fig that can stand having your fingers firmly pressed into its sides without giving way is not ready.
The fragrance: You can also just pick your figs by smell. A good fig smells, a fresh, sweet, insistant essence of ripe summer. Always sniff at the bottom.
If unsure, ask Isabelle. She knows.
PS: I was asked to add the following rectification to this post:"The association of yellow-green variety of fig producers has asked me to ask you to print a small correction to your fig letter on your blog, so that people may know that such varieties can also be good (and ripe) without turning such ridiculous colours as purple. Also, your brother says that they taste even nicer than the other variety and you should try some day."
This weekend was a bit grey; heavy grey skies, heavy grey throat and hands, heavy grey feet. I stood on my utterly dead balcony, and mused on the greyness and the deadness of it all, looking at the deceased flowers. Except they weren't grey, really, they were purple,and orange...
and the one tomato that will never ripen was a deep-seated comfy green. In close-up, decay became astounding. The greyness in my head shifted a little.
