Kazia Jankowski - big world | small kitchen

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Manchego and Caramelized Fig Canapés

Sundays, June through August, three things are certain. One: Evenings are for picnics with friends. Two: The picnic will be a themed potluck. Three: At the picnic, the men will congregate on one side of the blanket, and the women with gather on the other.

The routine begins on Wednesdays with an email proposing the week’s flavor. Those who RSVP quickly, sign up for salad. The slowpokes end up with appetizers, thereby requiring them to arrive on time. Saturdays are for grocery shopping and Sunday mornings for cooking. What’s less programmed about the evening, though, is the gender bridge. Its presence all depends on when the women start talking babies and when the men dig into business.

At that moment, when we settle into a Sunday supper that recalls those of my grandparents in rural Connecticut, I always have a moment of pause: I don’t have babies, don’t want them anytime soon, but I do love business. I could talk management styles and current events until the picnic sun set, and yet, I always find myself discussing pregnancy bras and third-trimester glasses of wine. And it’s usually then that I need, not a watered-down, third-trimester glass of wine, but a big, bold pour. I admire my friends entering motherhood, but there’s something—which I think is on the men’s side of blanket—that I need to establish along with a family.

My middleman position always makes me particularly eager to eat. Not only do I need food to accompany my glass of wine, but I’ve also noticed that, with a little something to nosh on, the men and women reunite and the bridge across the blanket quickly disappears. Because of that, I’ve even come to appreciate the nights I end up with appetizers. The earlier I put them out—and the more I bring—the longer the group stays together. Even the simplest, appetizers work.

Recently, on Spanish night, I started our picnic with caramelized figs on slices of nutty Manchego cheese. I introduced them as canapés, and the group was hooked. Canapés are traditional, one-bite, Spanish appetizers, and although mine would have infuriated my Spanish culinary school instructor (they called for none of the requisite olives or anchovies), they had the men of my group huddled around taking photos and the women bent over their swollen, pregnant bellies, reaching for seconds, then thirds.

My friends couldn’t say enough about the way that the golden sugar melted into the earthy figs. They marveled at how the tender caramelized fruit blended into the nutty Manchego. They appreciated the sprinkling of tangy, dark sherry vinegar.

And it was amid all that praise, I forgot about the bridge that sometimes stretches across the blanket.

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