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15
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Published 2007
My parents have a giant fig tree in their backyard. For many years, in late August just as the figs grew fat and started to fall to the ground, my great-grandmother drove up in her old Cadillac carrying her big blue enamel preserving pan to make fig jam. She and my mother gathered and picked every sticky, ripe fig—my great-grandmother’s eagle eye letting no ripe fig go ungathered. They made fig jam all day, the air in that kitchen growing hotter, heavier, and sweeter as the jam slowly cooke