It is the middle of the sweltering summer, with fresh fruit everywhere. Figs are eaten by the birds faster than it is plucked.
In a shop, I see a fruit cake. Fruit preserved in a brandied cake traditionally served in the middle of a cold, snowy winter. The then rare opportunity to taste some fruit until the winter breaks.
In South Africa we do this thing that makes no sense: Maintain a winter tradition in summer.
I know this. And yet, the pull of tradition has me eating dried fruit in heavy cake.