Some years ago, a young, sorta-hippyish couple knocked on my front door. They had noticed that I had fig trees in the yard, laden with summer fruit. If I wasn’t going to pick them all, they asked, could they harvest some figs? Since I was about to take a trip, I said: Sure, have at ’em.
Upon my return, as I stood at the door fumbling for my keys, I looked down – and there were two jars of delicious fig jam awaiting me.