Non e Figa

First, a thought.

I’m starting to reconsider Henri’s true origins. We have always known Henri to be a French poodle. Also, many of you know about Henri’s pension for figs. Every fig season, Henri gains approximately five pounds, because he stuffs his little snout full of figs. He simply cannot contain himself. Figs are a natural laxative, so my mom has a hell of a time keeping after the little poop machine.



Honestly, why would a DOG have such an obsession with FIGS? Admittedly, Henri will eat pretty much anything that’s placed in front of him. However… the fig thing? It is an inert compulsion that no one has been able to understand… until now.

Alba is CHOCK FULL of fig trees. I’m talking figs the size of baseballs. Not only that, but there are the normal mission figs, AND white figs. I’m not kidding – I’ve honestly never seen so many fig trees in my life. SO what I’m thinking is, in a previous life, Henri was truly ITALIAN! I mean, maybe in his previous PREVIOUS life. Or maybe PREVIOUSLY he was Italian, but before that he lived in France. Whichever it is, I know that this obsession has some serious roots. European roots.

Now, a story
We have spent a fair amount of time in Franca’s car (she’s an enologist of 2 ½ months at Ceretto), spinning around roundabouts and hobbling over unpaved rocky roads. Somehow, it has become Liz and my Nirvana. The minute we get in that car, we are at peace. Personally, I have fallen asleep three times in a matter of six days. Two of which were in the same day. Gosh darn Jet Lag.

ANYWAY – I started noticing the fig tress from the get-go. It’s probably due to my inexplicable fascination with our dog Henri. The only way I can clarify how much I care for and baby this dog is that my “motherly” hormones have kicked in, and, without a husband OR a child, let alone a BOYFRIEND, I’ve adopted Henri as my “little dude”.

Once I had recognized this prehistoric looking tree I began racking my brain in hopes of recalling the name of the fig. Finally I gave up and asked Andrea what the fruit was called. Figo, he said.

The next day I was trying to impress Franca in the car by yelling out “FIGA!” every time we passed by a fig tree. After several of these loud proclamations, Franca finally broke down in hysterics. She tried to explain why she was laughing, but I couldn’t understand her. Finally she said “cuello e un FIGO. Una FIGA e…” and then she pointed to her lap. I had been yelling out the name of the female anatomy.

Way to go, Allie.