I can say, with a degree of certainty, that one of my earliest memories is of the scent of fig leaves.
Coconut was not a food that I grew up with. My mother had no idea what to do with it and my brother and I both disliked it. We agreed that Mounds and Almond Joys were a waste of good chocolate and avoided houses that offered them at Halloween.
With me, it was more of a textural thing that I eventually grew out of. My brother never did.
Yet there was something about coconut that haunted me.
I distinctly remember the first time that I opened a can of coconut milk. It stirred something that was locked away and undefinable; a memory that I couldn't access.
My mother once gave me a large piece of the puzzle. We were on a crowded beach that reeked of coconut-scented suntan lotion. She said it reminded her of fig trees.
And later, as a teenager, I approached her wearing a new drugstore cologne that I thought made me smell exotic and tropical. In hindsight, I probably just smelled like a musky pinã colada, but she casually remarked that I smelled like figs.
I should have pieced it together from old photographs and stories of my grandparent's property in Portugal— my home for the first three years of my life. It wasn't until I returned as an adult, with husband and children in tow, and experienced it for myself, that it clicked.
In its heyday, my grandparent's property was a thriving farm, consisting of orchards, vineyard, and fields of grains, vegetables, and hay. There were chickens, rabbits, pigs, and oxen to work the fields. Water was supplied by a well; an enormous, deep hole in the ground, bordered by a low stone wall and covered with iron framework. The treillage, more ornamental than functional, soared high into the sky and was crowned with an iron horse that became the icon of the farm.
The stories that I heard throughout my childhood painted a lively picture of life on the farm: days governed by hard work, tempered by frequent celebrations and feasts, where family, friends, neighbors, and hired hands gathered together.
After my grandparents passed away, the property was left to my father and his siblings, who all lived in the US. They hired caretakers, who were grossly negligent of their duties. When I returned, in the late 1990's, I was crushed by what I found. The once-grand house was in an advanced state of decay, too precarious to enter. There was nothing to see anyway, all of its contents had been pilfered and looted. The fields laid fallow and were overgrown with weeds. The grounds were thick with brambles.
But there were some vestiges; things that endured the ravages of time and neglect.
The carefully cultivated grapes had gone wild, but were still producing heavily, the dark clusters ripening in the August sun.
The well and treillage were intact and the horse still galloped high in the clouds.
And near a concrete pool that was used to wash laundry, a fig tree thrived. It was heavy with fruit, still young and green. I mourned that I would not be there to taste them ripe. I picked some leaves, intending to press them between the pages of a book back home. It would be my only memento.
I turned to leave and a breeze kicked up, carrying with it the sun-warmed scent of fig leaves. The old feeling stirred and I understood that it was nostalgia.
I saw myself as a baby, laid out on a blanket under the shade of the fig tree. Nearby, my mother and grandmother washed linens in the pool and laid them out under the October sun to bleach.
I've no idea what I was feeling or thinking, but I'm reasonably sure that I was content to just lay there, listening to the splashing of water and the chatter of familiar voices, inhaling the scent of fig leaves.
I didn't know it then, but I do now— they smell a lot like coconut.
Some people think that fig leaves smell like cat pee. I suppose that could be true of some varieties, but most people detect creamy, nutty notes (like those in coconut), warm spice (as in cinnamon and nutmeg), and woody herbs (oregano, thyme and rue).
Last fall, I brought some dried leaves back from a trip through the South for Alex of Ideas in Food. I didn't tell him what they were because I wanted to let him guess. I think the first words out of his mouth were "smells like coconut".
In the perfume industry, fig-based fragrances are often described as "coconut aroma".
Despite the overwhelming similarity in scent, I can't find a direct link between the two. Figs and coconuts belong to different orders in the plant kingdom and research has turned up no common aroma compounds.
So, is it a matter of perception? Or something more tenuous?
Of course, the next question is: Do fig leaves taste like coconut?
Nibbling on the fresh leaves, I could detect no coconut flavor. But an infusion (in hot water) released the aroma, and yes— a fresh, green coconut flavor.
Fig leaf tea is not uncommon. It's best known for treating diabetes, helping to maintain proper insulin levels. It's also loaded with antioxidants and phytonutrients.
Regardless of the health benefits, I find fig leaf tea to be one of the best tasting 'herbal' teas in recent memory.
Maybe you would, too. That is— if you like coconut.
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