My daughter and her family recently moved to our town, settling onto a little acre of land with a few olive trees—unruly, organic, and growing as they please, the way things do when nobody gives them even the slightest bit of attention. Naturally, the moment I saw them, I thought, Olives! Oil!
The first batch I picked were green. Perfectly green. I had seen other people in the village harvesting theirs, so I assumed the timing was right. Confidently, I took a sampling in my bucket to the mill—only to be told, they would take them- but best to wait so they become more plump with oil. In France, they explained, olives aren’t usually picked before the feast day of Saint Catherine, November 25th.
Well, wouldn’t you know it? I should have known that there was a saint’s day for olive picking. I knew there were feast days, of course, but I didn’t know this particular day meant “Pick your olives now.” Still, traditions are traditions, and I am respectful of the wisdom of the village… even if I find out about it a little late.
So the other day, I started picking again. This time the olives were mixed—some green, some turning, and some completely black. I took a handful to the mill and asked, “Do these look ready?”
This time they said, “Ah yes, now they’re ready. Pick them all.”
All of them? Even the greenish ones?
“Yes, yes. Pick everything.”
So there I was again, picking: the greens, the blushy in-betweens, the deep blacks. Still picking, actually. Do you know how many kilos of olives you need to make just one liter of oil? Enough to understand why it’s called liquid gold.
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