The Fig is Up.

It's summertime in Hollywood.

I know this on account of a few things.

Even though the change of seasons in Los Angeles is a subtle flux and on any given day in January it could be eighty five degrees and pool weather, in July you may find yourself running back in the house, last minute, to crab a cozy cable knit sweater to take to Pace for dinner, there are a few summertime rituals, that Los Angelenos engage in, that mark the season more accurately than the thermometer.
I can tell that it's summer because throngs of music lovers are hiking up the Highland hill towards the Hollywood Bowl, I can tell that it's summer because The Hollywood Forever Cemetery has turned into a giant tailgate party each Saturday.
... And I can tell, because my own summer ritual is back.
Piping hot coffee in one hand and a Hollywood crime novel in the other, first thing in the morning.

 For me, the summer is all about murder.
And macerated fruits over biscuits for breakfast.

Murder and biscuits.
Ahhhh, summertime.

It began a few years back, the summer I spent, decked out in a leopard print in a bikini in Laurel Canyon, devouring hollywood based crime books and tales of the city's, once bright, fallen stars.

A book called, The Killing of the Unicorn, was the first, Peter Bogdanovitch's, somewhat delusional, account of Dorothy Stratton's tragic story. It was so fascinating and so sad. A beautiful, charismatic playmate, savagely murdered and sodomized--postmortem(!)--by her ex-husband, who then, took his own life. Next it was a book called L.A Despair, by John Gilmore, a collection of short stories in which none of the players are safe from Hollywood's bitter darkside. One of the most haunting stories in L.A. Despair is the chapter on Barbara Payton, in which, she is her own undoing, a stunning starlet on the up and up that just couldn't get out of her own way. Tumultuous public affairs, severe alcoholism, career cut short, prostitution, and gratuitous physical abuse are the "highlights" on her reel.
Having always had a fascination with her, I read everything I could find about Sharon Tate's gruesome end. That first summer, I logged hours on websites like Find a Death and Crime Scene pouring over the photos. I went to El Coyote, slid in a big red banquet and downed margaritas while trying to imagine that this was the last place she ever had dinner.
I stared at photos of Jayne Mansfield's topless car and shoulders. I couldn't look away. No matter how much my eyes "watered", or how many nightmares I had as a result, I still searched Wonderland Avenue for the home of Four on the Floor and toasted the terror with it's namesake cocktail at The Hungry Cat. And on my birthday, I took a Dearly Departed tour of Hollywood.
I was a woman transfixed by the juxtaposition of malevolence and bewitching charm this city embodies in equal measure. There is an energy here that is oh so hard to define. Contradiction flirts with irony unmercifully. Success glides by as strife chokes on it's dust and no one rushes in to deliver the Heimlich.
I found myself seduced.
And terrified.
I was in love with the idea that a city with such a sweet, glamourous facade could conceal a core so rotten, though I suppose, "the sweet is never as sweet without the sour and [Los Angeles] knows the sour".
This city that I now call home, is a true yin and a yang of lightness and darkness. And for all of the sexy and sinister divides, I remain wholly and completely in love with this complicated city. And hypnotised by the books that shine their big spotlights in all of the dark little corners that secrets like to hide in.

Last summer, every morning that I had to myself, I tore apart tubed biscuits and I mashed summer fruits with salt and sugar, leaving them to spill across the buttery pillows.  I clutched a searing hot cup of coffee in my white-knuckled grip, on the right. The mug punished my palm as I clutched it for dear life. On the left, my bound companions, the books that is, dropped the non in the fiction. They morphed from true stories to fantastic, suspenseful page turners. The kind with tough talking detectives and double crossing glamour pusses. The ones that keep you up until too late because you just have to know, "WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?!".
Most mornings, I  woke up to Raymond Chandler. Come late August I was in bed with James M. Cain. Finally, my relationship with James Ellroy pushed me to the point of insomnia with his over the top violence in Blood on the Moon, in which, most of the victims were young women living in West Hollywood. A wee-bit too close to home for comfort, I closed the back cover of that tall tale and and closed the bloody season. I moved into fall with a Patti Smith cushion that delivered the promise of sweet, innocent love, over the threat of dismemberment.

But, its a brand new season.

I have brand new book and a brand new breakfast.
The book, Ellroy. American Tabloid.
The breakfast, The Hand Pie.
Still a marriage of flaky dough and syrupy fruits, but this summer, in the form of a folded pie so that I never have to put my book down in order to sink my teeth into my meal.

The Fig is Up.

The following is an account of A Hand Pie based on true events and a recipe by Bon Appetit.
by Maggie Stebar


It was a clear case of neglect.
My black mission figs, that I selected with care, and brought home from the market so lovingly on a sun speckled sunday morning, had passed. They were left for dead, in a cold refrigerated box. A veritable morgue, full, of other abandoned foods. For a week and a half. These figs were victims of bad timing.Wrong place, wrong time. Innocents that had been neglected for more convenient meals. The swinging diner, the chinese delivery, the sushi bar. Attention just hadn't come fast enough and now the figs lay shriveled on top of each other unceremoniously.

It was difficult for me to accept their sad fate. Once so supple, so beautiful, they now lay hardened and wrinkled.

Desperate for a happy ending, I paced. I went over what had happened in my mind. I needed to know my involvement in the figs' demise. It was an accident. I didn't mean for it to come to this. What could I do? Should I call someone for help? Who can I trust to tell me what to do? My mind raced. I looked nervously around my kitchen. I found myself staring at a half consumed bottle of wine from the night before. Then came the light bulb.
 I reasoned with myself that if Botrytis works in favor of making grapes into some of the most sought after wine in the world, that maybe there was hope for my figs. Maybe just maybe...
Could it be a form of noble rot they were experiencing and not succumbing to the plain, old, throw-it-in-the-trash variety?
I began my fig resuscitation with a baking soda bath. Next, I sorted. There were three figs of the three pints that were definitely DNR. I pulled off the stems, I gently pulled apart each fig. Some were dry, some were oozing syrup. I put their little fig bodies in a bowl and added honey, brown sugar, raw cane sugar, salt and lemon juice. Slowly I churned the fig mixture, looking for signs of life. The juices began to appear. They were still alive!! I hadn't senselessly murdered my figs after all, I'd macerated them!
So happy they were back to life, I freshened them up with the juice from another lemon and perfumed them with a cap full of vanilla extract.
As, they bubbled and gelled on the stove my guilt melted away. I had my happy ending. I welcomed my pardon. It was time to make breakfast.....

On The Record.....the recipe

Fig Jam:

• 3 pints black mission figs
• 1/4 cup orange blossom honey
• 1/4 cup brown sugar
• 1/4 cup raw cane sugar
• juice of one lemon
• 1/4 tsp. sea salt
• dash of vanilla extract

First, soak figs in water and rinse. Next, de-stem and tear apart in big rustic chunks for texture. Combine all ingredients in large bowl to macerate the figs. When they appear to be juicy, heat a dutch oven or sauce pan over medium to medium-high heat. Encourage the figs to boil then turn down the heat and let them simmer to desired jam consistency. Allow to cool.

Crust:
(adapted from Bon Appetit)

• 1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
• 1/2 tsp. raw cane sugar with extra for sprinkling
• 1/4 tsp. sea salt
• zest of one lemon
• 1/2 cup--1 stick chilled unsalted butter cut in cubes
• 1/4 ice water *with a squeeze of lemon (optional)
• 1 egg beaten

For dough, combine dry ingredients, then work the butter cubes in to the mixture until the texture of course meal. Slowly stir in ice water until dough comes together in clumps. Form into a square, wrap in plastic and chill until firm. About two hours.

When dough is sufficiently chilled, set aside.
Preheat the oven to 375*. Roll out dough on a flowered surface as close to 15x12-- I ended up with a misshapen flat piece of dough and it still worked--cut six rectangles. Brush edges with water and spoon fig jam on each. Fold dough over and gingerly seal edges with a fork. Place on a parchment lined baking sheet. Brush each pie with egg wash and sprinkle with sugar. Slice small slits in the tops for steam. Bake for 35-40 minutes.
Enjoy when risk of a scorched palate is minimal. And make plenty, because,
The Fig is Up Hand Pie is so good, you'll kill for one more bite.