Let me tell you a story that’s been quietly ripening for about six years—like the best kind of fruit. It all began on a family trip to Portland, Oregon. We stayed at a cozy hotel nestled in a charming neighborhood, full of strollable streets and local shops. Just around the corner from where we stayed, there was a small, unassuming supermarket the Food Front, a co-operative grocery. Nothing fancy—just the kind of place you pop into for water bottles, bananas, maybe a late-night snack or two. But one afternoon, as I stepped out of the store, I spotted something unexpected right there in the corner of the parking lot: a fig tree. Not a little shrub, not a well-manicured garden plant, but a wonderfully untamed, full-grown fig tree with broad leaves and an old-world presence. It felt like stumbling upon a secret.
Then the world changed. COVID hit, and like so many others, our travels paused. The fig tree, for a time, became a sweet, persistent memory.
In summer 2024, we made our return to Portland. I walked to the same location, full of hope, only to find the store shuttered, the parking lot wrapped tightly in a tall, metal fence like a fortress, and the fig tree—still there—just out of reach. I stood there for several minutes, a grown adult mentally scheming like a kid at recess, trying to figure out a magical way over or around the barrier. But no dice. Still, hope is a stubborn thing.
Fast forward to this year. We returned once again in July 2025 and checked into the same hotel. It was Saturday, July 12. Once more I walked to the market, my heartbeat a little faster than it should be for a grocery trip. The store was still closed. The fence still there. And the fig tree—it had grown even taller, stretching confidently almost to the top of the two-story building. It was so close I could smell its leaves—but so far I could barely take it.
Then came Sunday morning.
We were heading to breakfast when we passed the supermarket again. And that’s when I saw it: a car, parked in the forbidden lot. The gates of Eden had cracked open. I swear I heard celestial trumpets in the sky. Angels might have shed a few tears. Two women were in the lot, tending to the property. For a moment, I hesitated. Would it be strange to approach two strangers to talk about my fig tree obsession?
Apparently not. Within moments, Katharine and Kate had gone from strangers to friends. Kate was part-owner of the former co-op market and shared that she used to admire the fig tree from the second-floor window every summer. It was clear—we were kindred spirits. Katharine handed me a pair of loppers. “Go ahead,” she smiled. I knelt near the base of the tree and gently cut two branches, like a pilgrim receiving his blessing.
Near the fig tree were other companions—a grapevine twisting quietly up a trellis, and a delightful little dwarf apple tree with a few dozen green apples clinging to its limbs. The fig itself was full of young, immature fruit—still a month or so away from being ready. But oh, the promise.
Tomorrow, I’ve got a stop at the local hardware store. Time to buy a mat knife and prep these cuttings the right way—scraping off a bit of bark, nudging nature along with a little science and a lot of love.
Because sometimes, even trees you can’t reach plant something deep within you that keeps growing anyway.
Stay tuned for more about these cuttings, in the meantime here are a few pictures.
L-R: Katharine, Evan and Kate posing in front of the fig tree. I am happy we met.
Just beyond the tangled grapevine—nature’s own attempt at a security system—a stern, sun-faded sign stood guard like a disgruntled parking lot bouncer, warning all who dared to overstay: “One hour. No exceptions. Not even for kombucha emergencies.” I do miss the co-op. We’d wander in for food, water, and an odd assortment of miscellaneous treasures—organic lentils, biodegradable floss, artisanal pickles in jars that looked too pretty to open. It was dangerously convenient.
The guy with the loppers. Take a look at that trunk!
The loppers worked very well.
Just about every branch had 3-4 figs growing.
That fig needed another month beneath the sun to fully ripen and reach its luscious peak.
Next to the fig tree there was a huge grape vine growing and a dwarf apple tree! Check out the loppers I’m holding!
I gently removed the tender leaves and the underdeveloped figs. Then, with the clippings bundled and the morning still young, I said goodbye to Kate and Katharine. Off we went in search of breakfast.
And yes, we absolutely brought the fig cuttings with us into the restaurant—marching in like it was the most natural thing in the world. Did it look a little odd? Without question. Did I care? Not even a little. The Fig Tree Guy was on a mission, and missions rarely make room for appearances.
A kind-hearted employee noticed our leafy entourage and offered two sturdy paper bags to carry them in—classic Portland kindness at its finest, unprompted and sincere.
After breakfast, I ducked into a hardware store and picked up a pair of pruners—my unofficial tools of the trade—and returned to the hotel room to get to work. There, in the soft light of a guestroom window, I carefully reduced each long branch into manageable segments. I placed the cuttings in water, gently arranged them like fragile artifacts, and covered them with a plastic bag to hold in their moisture—a makeshift greenhouse born of necessity and fig obsession.
Later that morning, we hit the road for Seattle, WA, our precious cargo tucked away like botanical royalty—each fig cutting carefully nestled in layers of damp paper towels and plastic wrap, looking less like twigs and more like tiny, chlorophyll-packed burritos. They rode in the backseat with all the dignity of VIP passengers, and I drove like a nervous chauffeur transporting leafy diplomats.
Once in Seattle, I commandeered the hotel ice bucket—normally reserved for champagne or questionable late-night soda—and turned it into a fig spa. The cuttings stood soaking in their chilly bath while I diligently changed the water each day, like a very underqualified plant nurse making daily rounds. No one told me I’d be spending my vacation babysitting fig cuttings, but here we were.
A few days later, it was time to fly back home. I wrapped the cuttings in wet newspaper like little plant tamales, sealed them in plastic bags, and marched them right onto the plane with all the confidence of someone carrying an emotional support shrub. TSA didn’t blink not even questioning my sharp pruners.
Today, the cuttings are finally home, standing upright in plastic cups half-filled with water, looking like they’re preparing for a science fair. They’re tucked away from direct sunlight and loosely covered in plastic, like fig ghosts awaiting their big comeback. Will they root? Who knows. But they’ve made it this far—and frankly, at this point, I’m emotionally invested.
Will the cuttings make it? Stay tuned for more!
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Stay tuned, keep on rootin’ and happy growing!
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