The flat of plump purple fruit stares at me from its inclined position on the familiar shelves of Harvest Wagon in Toronto’s tony Rosedale neighbourhood. It wasn’t there yesterday and seems to have appeared out of nowhere, exotic-looking and vaguely suggestive. Within seconds though I’ve come up with several reasons why it will never be mine: cost ($5 each!), practicality (it would get crushed before I got it home), and intimidation (how does one eat a fig?).