Figue Amère Miller Harris 2002

A warm summer evening in Tuscany, a gentle evening breeze sways the cypress trees, while on a terrace illuminated by lanterns at a small family hotel, the individual tables are elegantly set with white tablecloths, inviting guests to dinner with regional specialties.

“Mom, come on, get in here! Everything's already on the table!”
“Hold on, don’t rush me! I just want to put on a bit of perfume!”
“But everyone else is already downstairs, Mom, I also want some of that ... what do you call it again ... that platter?”
“Antipasti, Hebbert! You should learn some Italian while you're here!”
“Oh, what a silly thing! Are you finally ready?”
“Yes, with a bit of perfume I feel a little more elegant!”
“Phew, what’s that stinky stuff?!”
“This is something really special! With fig in it!”
“Fig? I’d also be into that stinky stuff!”
“Hebbert, like the fruit!”
“What’s it doing in perfume? If I’m not completely daft in the head, you eat them, right?!”
“Dad, fig scent, it’s in there!”
“No, no, no, it doesn’t smell like a fruit platter! More like that stomach schnapps that old ladies always pour in! The one with the cork that they can’t open!”
“Oh come on, it’s a bit sharp in the nose, but only for a moment!”
“A moment?! Ha, my nose hairs have burned off!”
“Oh, Hebbert, don’t be such a philistine, it has to develop! That’s what the lady at the perfume shop said!”
“This isn’t a photo film! Develop, what nonsense!”
“Now smell it, is it getting softer?”
“Where is it soft? Like freshly mowed grass, it smells like green stuff, that’s what it smells like!”
“Can’t you smell the violet?”
“Whoever sold you that nonsense must have a violet! I smell nothing!”
“But they said there’s also violet in it!”
“They told you a load of horse manure! Don’t believe everything, Mom!”
“But it’s starting to smell a bit better now...”
“Depends. You always say that the mossy concrete slabs on our son’s terrace smell so musty, just like his firewood in the stacking corner...”
“Oh Hebbert, now I don’t feel well at all. I can’t go to dinner like this!”
“Oh come on, Mom, let’s go! A bit of musty wood smell, I feel like I’m at home! Now let’s go eat, there might be figs on the platter!”

And the warm breeze lightly brushes over the evening gathering, the soft clinking of filled red wine glasses, sun-kissed happy faces toast to each other, and a hint of fresh figs from the antipasti appetizers wafts into the night of Tuscany.