The perfect figgy pudding needs a cook
who throws away the recipe and dreams.
Imagine if you will a Thailand fig
that’s redolent with spices, elephants,
monsoonal rains; and cross it with a fig
from Italy, Sardinia perhaps,
to add the sun-drenched beaches, narrow streets,
oregano, and Homer’s wine-dark sea.
Now there would be a fig to dream about,
a fig dessert to end a perfect meal.
Unfortunately, with a recipe
you take a bunch of mashed up figs
and add some bread forgotten in the frig.
Then dump a bunch of sugar in and mix
and bake or fry, it doesn’t matter which,
or boil it pretending it’s a treat,
pretending what you’ve got will be as good
as plump-ripe figs directly from the tree.