We’ve had immature figs on our fig tree ever since the tree first leafed out in May – and I was so excited that we might have an early fig crop that the gods saw fit to Mae me wait and wait and wait. Luckily, the last two weeks must have triggered them into maturation, because suddenly we have the biggest fig harvest we’ve had since I started growing this hardy variety. Like many things this summer, it all happened at once, another case of feast or famine, with no happy middle ground. And so we are feasting…

I haven’t done anything special with these figs other than plucking them straight from the stem and popping them into my mouth, but there are many methods of preparation that accentuate their sweetness and add to their appeal. Honey and goat cheese is a popular combination, as is prosciutto, which is what I’ll be trying tonight – think of it as a variation on the prosciutto and cantaloupe/salty and sweet marriage. 

It will be time to repot these specimens come spring – a daunting task that I’ve been dreading, and one that I’ll put off for another year. Whenever I want to hurry through winter, I’ll try to remember that this awaits, and maybe I won’t mind taking it slow. 

After reading about the additional alleged atrocities in this article on Bishop Howard Hubbard, and how the Archdiocese of New York is actively trying to suppress and prevent the release of disciplinary documents regarding Hubbard’s history, my anger and ire over the continued cover-up by the Catholic Church was reignited. Why would you want to work so hard to prevent information from being released unless it’s pretty damning information?

Let me begin by resolutely repeating that I have never been abused or harassed by any priest. I was an altar boy at St. Mary’s church for about five years. I remember the abject terror and debilitating fear I felt when my parents told me it was happening. I was so socially anxious and shy that they thought of doing anything in front of a church full of people – particularly anything where I might mess up – left me with weeks of sleepy nights and worry. When they said I had to be an altar boy, it was one of the most traumatic moments of my childhood. My mind can still replay the Saturday night before my first service. The dread of it had drained all the joy from any activities that happened that week, and I can remember being in the family room unable to enjoy the Saturday night freedom we had. Tossing and turning with fear, the night was awful, and the next morning I could barely get ready for trembling hands and a gnawing tumult in my stomach. 

I was serving with a seasoned altar boy who had been there before and knew the routine. His name was Brady, and while older, he was kind and set my mind as much at ease as it was going to be. We made it through that first service without incident, and for the next five years I would regularly serve, each time getting slightly easier, until I was comfortable enough to do it without worry. Eventually I would be showing young boys what to do for their first time. In all those years, aside from some unnecessarily-deep shoulder and neck massages from the main priest that had my brother and I squirming – but which would never be considered out of the ordinary, I never saw or experienced anything approaching sexual abuse. 

There were, however, whispers and hints that something questionable was going on beneath the surface, stories of boys who had gone out on Saturday afternoons with the priest for sundaes, something my brother and I had never (blessedly) been invited to do. Not that I didn’t like ice cream, I was just too socially anxious and shy to have enjoyed that. And what kid in their right mind wants to spend a Saturday with a priest? This was also at the tail-end of that time in America when priests were for the most part still revered and respected, a time before we knew about all the awfulness that was going in, all the sexual abuse and the church’s cover-up of it. 

It wasn’t until we were heading into our confirmation that I saw or wondered about anything. At the age of sixteen, we were thoroughly exhausted and weary of years of religious instruction, and the hours-long classes to prepare us to be confirmed were torturous. Father Gulley sat us down at a large table, and the group of us, boys and girls, had to read religious passages, talk about life, and generally still time until it barely ticked by on the clock by the door. Only when it came time to discuss the actual confirmation service did I prick up my ears, if only to not make a complete fool of myself on the altar. 

The process itself involved walking onto the altar and kneeling before Bishop Hubbard, at which point he would say a few words, and presto, we were confirmed. Oh that Catholic magic! It sounded pretty typical – the same way we had gone through learning confession and communion – one more ‘C’ word to mark the passage of a childhood spent in Catholic tradition. 

It was what Father Gulley told us at that moment which stuck with me, not for any concern or worry at the time, as he had, with his reassuring smile and gentle way, made it seem like it was nothing. He described how we would approach the Bishop on the altar, kneel down, and then the Bishop would say a few words to us. Father Gulley said he might make random remarks on how nice a girl looked, and good-naturedly rub some of our shoulders or touch us in some friendly way, and that we were not to consider it anything other than a gesture to make us feel comfortable. He said it so casually and convincingly that none of us thought anything of it. Looking back, I’m amazed at how easily we all fell in line, how none of us thought to question it, even among ourselves or privately with each other. It was so seductively executed that I never realized it until years later, when the allegations started coming out. Then it came flooding back, and I felt a sense of terror at having been so close to evil and not even realizing it. 

I don’t remember the confirmation itself. I vaguely remember kneeling before Bishop Hubbard, but not what he might have said. I do remember that he didn’t touch me, because I had been primed to detect, and ignore that, so when it didn’t happen I don’t know if I was relieved, or wondering at whether I was unworthy of such ‘comfort’. Either way, it wasn’t anything that any of us remarked upon or thought much of, and I’m guessing most of us have forgotten about it altogether. 

Today, that moment is chilling in what it might have meant.

The twins and I just spent our final summer hurrah in Boston, which we shall recap in a bit – for now, a recap of the previous week while we dive headfirst into September. It all begins again this month… and the shenanigans pictured on this chair are just the tip of the flaming iceberg… 

Mornings of change are afoot.

The very last day of August. 

Showing some September love.

A Friday finch party.

Another magical night begins another weekend in Boston.

My virgin manicure experience. (Spoiler alert: I’m hooked.)

Luck be a lady tonight.

A parting Boston summer shot.

Iron my ass.

Dazzlers of the Day included Conan Gray, Meghan Markle, Tom Goss, Wanda Sykes, Jodyann Morgan, and Sam Brinton.