I gave DH Lawrence a jar of fig-sesame spread. He was enraptured:
Silver-pink peach, venetian green glass of medlars and
Shallow wine-cups on short, bulging stems
Openly pledging heaven:
Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,
And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,
Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,
Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilisation, and
In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see
Till it's finished, and you're over-ripe, and you burst to give up your
What then, good Lord! cry the women.
We have kept our secret long enough.
We are a ripe fig.
Let us burst into affirmation.
Really. The fig-sesame spread is that good.
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