I know I have a radar for spotting anything edible (or edible soon) in the most random places and I know fig trees grow in the most random places, but the randomness of this made my otherwise-ordinary day.
Walking over a very ordinary bridge over an equally ordinary section of Kananook Creek at Frankston beach, I spotted this little fig growing from a crack in the concrete, vertical wall edging the creek. Between the gray-ness above and murkiness below, her elegant limbs boasted several bright green spring shoots.
Hello, hello! She's even got a fig on her if you look closely.
If she can draw sustenance and make babies from next to nothing in this stark and inhospitable environment, we, friends, can do anything.
That said, this spot at the end of Playne Street is where my family and car-loads of Italian relatives hung out on summer days when I was a kid.
Given memories of picnic rugs piled high with food stretched under the shady trees, white singlets, long neck bottles of beer (for them, not us, unless we mixed a bit with lemonade) and bocce balls, perhaps this stoic little lady, who inherently likes a Mediterranean climate, wasn't so out of place after all.
(Julia Hebaiter in Another Life)FoodLit Writer, Feel-Good Food Lover & Storyteller
Because Food Sans Story is Bland