With my trusty little two-dollar-battery-cover-keeps-falling-off calculator, I deduced that the fig cuttings had enjoyed quite enough hibernation and were ready to emerge from winter break.
I love the internet. You can find a 100 experts on one subject who will tell you 100 different ways to do something, and 900 non-experts who pose as experts, copying and pasting the same instructions on 900 different sites.
Here's one that looked plausible.
Great! I can do that! I have gobs of stored, 4-inch pots in my shelves of the tool shed, and a lovely heavy-duty platter on which I can place them for handy packing around the house as they get in the way first in one place and then the other.
Wonder of wonders. The pots are not there. Maybe I was thinking of 3-inch pots. Ah well, no matter. I can make do with those.
Then, catastrophe. My beloved, cherished, sturdy, HUGE, had-it-since-I-don't-know-when and have-no-idea-where-I-got-it-either ugly platter is missing. I mean completely gone! Those kinds of things are too big to just get up and walk away. I'd have heard it clattering across the floor!
Either someone has clandestinely stolen it, or I transported heavily laden dishes of hot food to a potluck somewhere and somehow managed to forget "my precious". (Pathetic sobbing)
I don't know if I can get over this.
On to replacement technology. Big ugly plastic bowls. I knew I bought them for some reason.
I sing to the branches, so they believe it is spring...
"The hills are alive with the sound of music..."
"I love Paris in the springtime..."
"Here comes Peter Cottontail..."
I take them out gently and carefully.
Then I cut them to little bits.
And bury them.
And your little friends, too!
Now fully buried and placed in a light room, above 70 degrees. Treat them as you would vampires. Very carefully, and without direct sunlight.
Gardeners; always burying things they love.
Then I enjoyed Yom Teruah and played with photography all day. Very non-productive, but good for the soul!