#overgorge

[lofihipbot]

lofi hip hop beats to overgorge to

[oupacademic]

Word of the Day: overgorge

v. To gorge or eat to excess; to cram with too much food; to glut

Image: “Fruit Seller” by Vincenzo Campi. Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons

[farmrun-blog]

Fourmet! Puke Newtons

For the majority of my life, figs have been nothing but a word that comes before Newton. As it turns out, the fig is actually a fruit. As it turns out, I have gotten to know figs very well over the past three weeks. Having read that last sentence of the first paragraph, the hook, you may think that I’m going to relay an outrageous story about figs. Perhaps a humorous story, one where I am embarrassed or maybe utilized figs to come out on top of a seemingly bottomless situation. I regret to inform you that there is no such story. This story has no point. No humor. There are no grandiose life lessons. There is not even any flow. Merely an excuse to put up some pictures of figs. Back to the story… The teardrop shaped fruit is generally no bigger than your average spoonful of merengue, and when overripe, quite resembles a flaccid waterballoon full of snot. The fleshy exterior is edible, and delicately surrounds the inside which is equally as pleasing to look at as to eat. Anchored to the interior surface of the skin, reaching towards the center, a network of flame-eyed cycloptic snakes wriggle and writhe among a matrix of sweet sticky nectar. These are actually the flowers of the fig, as it is an aggregate fruit (like strawberries and raspberries), and is thus actually many fruits crammed into one megafruit. Kind of like the Power Rangers. Depending on the variety, the central are towards which the snakes yearn is a deep red or a sunny yellow. When I arrived on the farm to discover fig trees scattered about, I schemed to make myself absolutely sick on them. Gorge while the gorgin’s good, y’know. Take the same approach one takes with asparagus, tomatoes, peaches and other such seasonal delicacies, because when they’re gone, they’re gone. When someone mentions fig, I’ll have swirling visions of snotty balloons falling all around me, splattering my body with their putrid fermenty juices. No more Puke Newtons for me, thanks. And with the combination of overzealous casual consumption, daily gathering of buckets of spoiled figs for the pigs, and picking, peeling cooking and canning thirty five pounds of fig jam, I think that I’ve successfully met my quota for a few years.