Under the fig tree
The fig tree was the spot.
It's where the aunties and uncles gossiped over a beer escaping the blinding Hawkes Bay sun. The thick green canopy overhead providing refuge from Tamanuiterā.
I used to like sitting at thier feet, digging at the hard compacted dirt with a twig pretending not to hear juicer gossip then any woman's magazine could deliver.
Under the fig tree.
Avaliable on Wūru Waru Marino with 220m per 100g.