We had a small basket of fresh figs. Just picked. Small and plump with ripeness.
I dreamed up a sweet and savory plan. From my vision to the kitchen ; those figs were rendered edible but not divinely edible.
With food, as in life, there has to be a measure of forgiveness. We have to accept the fallen, the mis-seasoned and the burned.
It’s for the gathering that we cook. To call with smells and flavors. A sensory dinner bell.
We enter the kitchen with focused hope. To make a meal. To simmer and stir. To chop. To chase away the day in the rhythm of knife on wood and the sizzle of oil in a pan.
Shakespearean witches with a kinder slant. Our cauldrons bubble to nourish and delight.
The beauty of family – if they’re hungry, they’ll eat anyway. And they did.
We huddled at the kitchen counter. Silverware clinked. Mouths were full but undeterred. We rambled and chattered. Plates were cleaned.
Too often I want perfection and end up with a messy pile of figs and overcooked pasta.
We must forgive those things that lose their shine from culinary heart to pan to table. If they gather round we can claim success.
What do you do when you have a dinner flop?
Franny of the Failed Figs