The midrash tells of the last days of Jerusalem under Roman siege. One of the wealthiest women of the city, Miriam the daughter of Baythus, sent her servant to buy flour for the household.

The servant came back empty-handed. All the fine flour was sold. He had heard that coarser meal might still be available — should he buy that? Miriam nodded. He ran back out. The meal, too, was gone; only barley meal remained. He hurried home again to ask permission, and when he returned to the market the barley was gone as well.

Impatient with the relay of missed chances, Miriam went out herself, still dressed in her finery. House after house, stall after stall, she searched and found nothing. The siege had emptied Jerusalem of every morsel. At last, weak with hunger, she bent down in the street and picked up a discarded fig skin from the gutter. She ate it. The rot in it sickened her, and she died there.

Before her last breath, she tore the gold and silver ornaments from her arms and hurled them into the street, saying, “What use is this wealth to me, when it cannot buy me food?”

The rabbis heard in her dying cry the fulfillment of Ezekiel’s prophecy: “They shall cast their silver in the streets, and their gold shall be as an unclean thing” (Ezekiel 7:19). Wealth, the storyteller says, is always a fig skin away from useless.