My feelings toward our fig tree have softened a bit since I moved in with Chris a few years ago. For you blog newbies, this gal is a beast. (You can read about her miniskirt-sized poisonous leaves and obnoxious need to take over our lives here.) You see, we live in South Philly and we have this sweet little patio perfect for breakfast al fresco or an afternoon of sunbathing. But no. Never. Not once. Because she won’t share. As in, leaves not an inch for us humans once she’s in full bloom. This “original” fig tree runs this place, folks. Two summers ago we dedicated many sleepless nights to turning her into canned fig preserves to be used as both our wedding favors and table assignments (seen here, recipe post here), since she produces enough figs in a summer to feed our entire neighborhood for a year. Then last summer, in complete and utter rebellion, this bossy thing decided to have a rotten season and deprive us. I woke up Saturday morning and opened the windows in our kitchen to let the cool breeze in when I saw this. Baby buds and bright green itty bitty leaves. And the smell, oh the smell of fresh figs right out your window. The sweetest sign of summer.