December 05, 2003

Once again, I am so fashionable that I travel backwards through time.

In today's NYT: Hot Item Smells Like a Fig.

Now, the article is worth reading for the headline alone, but here's what it's about:

"Fig is big.

So far, the only "must have" item this holiday season is not a toy. It is not an article of clothing. It is not even a specific model of cellphone, or DVD or digital camera.

It is a candle that smells like a fig [...]

The general manager of Henri Bendel, Ed Burstell, said the Fig had been restocked at least 10 times. The scent is "very sophisticated,'' he said, and then paused. "Nobody knows what fig smells like, anyway," he added."

Oh Edward, thou Philistine!

I have been an admirer of figs for many years. Back in 1994, I even went so far as to impale a column of dried figs on my Dodge Omni's radio antenna, stacking them as high as possible, and I drove about with them for a year and a half. That's true, by the way--I'm not just being wacky.

Well, I was being wacky, but right now I'm just telling you about a past instance of Genuine Wackiness™.

I am so fond of figs that I love the very sound of the word: fig. What a soft syllable, like fluff, yet also brief and punky, like fuck. I like the word so much I will say it for no reason at all. Ask me what's on my mind, and I might just say figs. Ask me what I want for dinner, I might say it again, just to take advantage of the opportunity to do so.

Fig.

There, you see?

Now, I'm not partial to dried figs, or to fig newtons. Most of the dried figs you can get here, pressed into plastic-wrapped Turkish wheels and crusted with an excrescence of sugar, are just nasty, chewy leather bulbs. And fig newtons have too many insect bits in them.

But fresh figs...ahhh, now there's an untrammelled delight. I first discovered them in New York when, for a few brief weeks in late summer, the dusty purple bits of Mediterranean fecundity showed up on street vendors' fruit carts in Manhattan and at Korean fruit stores in Queens. They were a bit expensive, but oh! How fitting that the first humans should cover themselves with the broad green leaves of this divine fruit! Eat a fig and you're ingesting a symbol of richness and bounty that humanity has been contemplating for thousands of years. The goddess Demeter gave the fig to the Greeks, and their Olympian champions wore it as a medal. It's mentioned 39 times in the Bible. The Bodhi tree, beneath which Buddha attained Enlightenment (And How To Do It, Too), was a species of wild fig.

Now, in its latest incarnation, you can apparently set fire to it and fill your home with bourgeoise potpourri-style scenty goodness:

"Inspired by the legendary fruit of the Greek Islands," begins the copy on the side of the box, "Fig is juicy, indulgent and richly aromatic, combining the scent of the sun-ripened fruit with that of its woodsy leaves. With a hint of sweet jasmine, spicy anise and sensual sandalwood, it evokes a hot summer's day resting under the cool shade of the sacred tree."

I'm not sure I approve. Almost 4,000 years ago, the Egyptians recorded the words of the fig:

Compliments to my lady. Who more noble than I? Why not I your servant, if you have none? They brought me from Syria As plunder for the beloved.

I consider a Dodge Omni antenna full of figs analogous to the adornment of a chariot with divine fruit. But there's something ignoble about a stinky candle called Fig. I mean, just listen:

Compliments to my lady. Who more noble than I? Why not I your servant, if you have none? They brought me from Syria As plunder for the beloved, Who may purchase me for twenty-five dollars at Henri Bendel, Although Bath and Body Works has me on sale for nineteen fifty.

Doesn't sound quite right, does it?

Fig.