Fig Addicts Anonymous: Confessions from the Backyard Orchard

Rigo   •   22 Jul 2025   •   166

Hi, my name is Rigo... and I’m a fig addict. It started out innocently enough: one fig tree, a sunny corner in the yard, and a dream. But somewhere between rooting cuttings in old coffee cups and naming each fig like it’s a pet, things got out of hand. You don’t realize it at first. One tree becomes five. Five becomes twenty. Suddenly, you’re googling how to build a greenhouse out of shower curtains because your figs need "humidity control." 

You know you’ve crossed a line when friends stop by and ask, "Is that a fig tree in your bathroom?" and you answer, "Only temporarily." You've got figs in pots, figs in ground, figs in buckets that used to hold laundry soap. There's a Black Madeira by the grill, a Smith fig by the mailbox, and a Deep Purple in a pot that hasn't had drainage in months but you can't throw it out because it survived winter '22 and deserves your respect.

My mornings now involve a full patrol of the orchard. I call it the "fig loop." I check for swelling eyes, new leaves, possible figlets. I’ve called out of work claiming car trouble when really I was too deep into air layering to stop. I've ghosted dinner dates because someone offered a rare fig trade on a forum and I had to bag it before someone else pounced. This isn’t a hobby—it’s a lifestyle with a compost bin.

I tell myself it’s under control, but last time I labeled a fig variety with a QR code so I could scan it and read my own tasting notes. I've had serious conversations about fig genetics with people I've never met but trust more than my accountant. I once spent an hour explaining the differences between Adriatic and Mt. Etna types to a neighbor who just wanted to know if he could mow my lawn.

Still, there’s joy in this madness. Fig collecting connects people. It feeds your body and your soul. Sure, it makes you say things like, "I can’t go out tonight—I have to mulch," but the payoff is sweet. Literally. There’s nothing like tasting a perfectly ripe fig you grew yourself, knowing all the weird things you did to get there. Fig people understand. We’re a rare breed. A little obsessive, a little nerdy, and a lot passionate.

So to my fellow fig fanatics out there: you’re not alone. We may not be able to stop, but we sure know how to savor the moment. And hey, if loving figs is wrong, I don’t want to be right.