Fig jam

Zjelko, our skipper, is a good sailor, a great teacher, and a very generous person. By the end of our week with Zjelko (not pronounced "Velcro", Dave) we had all got to know him very well. So well in fact that he and his partner, Duda, and her daughter, Lana, put us up in Zagreb for a couple of nights, which I will never forget. The dinner conversation on the first night was hilarious, spiced up notably with a cameo from a Slovenian family friend and plenty of Babic wine. The following night we returned the favour and took them out for dinner (picture below). Zjelko ordered the entrée and we were all treated to some delicious cow tongue and sausages. Zjelko, who advocated a strict diet of figs, yoghurt, juice and a glass of red wine, tucked into an enormous steak. I would have been jealous if my own meal wasn't so fantastic. Apparently moderation is the key.




One day, somewhere in the Adriatic (someone help me with the name of the island), Zjelko took the dinghy and disappeared for an hour or so whilst we all competed in a lilo race. He returned from the island grinning, his shirt laden with ripe, purple, sticky figs. We were assured they were 100% organic and free from pesticides. We believed him and all tucked in, sort of, and were shortly thereafter reprimanded for peeling the skins off. After we had had our fill of figs, there was three bowls left (below), which remained full for a few days until Trish threw them out! Zjelko was most displeased and Trish and Karen made up some story about the main cabin (their bedroom) being full of little flies as a result of the slowly decomposing fruit.




Not to be deprived of figs, Zjelko replenished his supply from another island later on but kept them in a bag near the wheel, apparently so no-one could eat them when he was not looking. When we finally left Zjelko in Zagreb, we promised to catch up with him in London and he gave us each a jar of fig jam.