Olives

The oil was smooth, pure, and decadent, with a mouth-coating richness and the faintest hint of spring grass. It was the very essence of olive.

By Robert Lillegard

Thomas Jefferson called the olive tree “the richest gift of Heaven” and Homer called its oil “liquid gold.”

It is the most widely cultivated fruit in the world, and perhaps the most ancient. For 7000 years, the gnarled trees have provided meat for the hungry, ointment for the wounded, and shade for the weary.

The olive itself is the finest of fruits — the food of peasants, and the food of kings. Olives were priceless to the ancients. King David set armed guards over his olive groves, and in Greece, cutting down an olive tree was a capital offense.

Victors in battle or in sport received crowns made of olive branches. Olive oil was a symbol of joy and prosperity, and it was used to light lamps, sanctify churches, and heal the sick. Swedish poet Fredrika Bremer wrote, “It is quite affecting to observe how much the olive tree is to the country people...The olive tree is the peasant’s all in all.” Indeed, the olive tree is a survivor.

What other plant can make its boast in adversity, sinking its roots into the poorest of soils and rising towards the heavens? The olive tree is a lean, hungry plant, gnarled and ugly. It grows very slowly, but it can live a long time. Trees planted two thousand years ago are still alive today. Two thousand! Think of the history that has happened during that time. A man called Jesus lived and died, the Dark Ages covered Europe, the Renaissance came and went, somebody “discovered” America, Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, John Travolta danced — and through it all, the olive tree yielded her fruit.

I'm an Italian boy, and I grew up on olives. We ate them in all their forms —in meaty black slices on pizza, as salty surprises in pasta sauce, or as tangy green orbs from the jar. But the olives I remember best came on Easter. In a house marked by formal events, nothing was more formal than Easter dinner. In those years, my sister was a chubby-cheeked, curly-haired angel, and I was small indeed. Our mother dressed us up (a little dress and a little suit) and sat us down. As the big people drank Cabernet from Waterford crystal, my sister and I peered at each other across the table. There was the relish tray, gleaming with plump olives. I grabbed one and stuck it on my pinky. Then I grabbed another, and yet another. Kathryn did the same, and there we were — two little CEOs with our hands in the air, waving our olive-tipped fingers. I can see why olives get connected with joy. In Duluth~Superior, we're lucky to have a bounty of olives.

Mount Royal Fine Foods stocks an extensive olive bar, with selections from many different regions. A number of stores stock imported olive oil, and Va Bene and Midi count olive plates among their extensive offerings. There are tangy Manzanillas, all salty and sour. There are the vibrant Liguria, tangled in a riot of herbs. The little black Niçoise burst with sweet juiciness, and the beefy Kalamtas are yielding and hearty. But the green Greek olives, meaty and piquant, are the best of all. Stuffed with garlic, they fairly dance with a pungent spice; stuffed with feta, they melt with a tangy smoothness.

But for all the delicious local options, my best olive memory comes from abroad. When I was living in Germany, I stopped at the city of Trier. It was a fresh spring day. I was planning on transferring trains right away, but decided to take a peek around the town. If nothing else, I needed a gift for my mother. When I came across the olive oil shop, I knew I had found it. My mother is half Italian, so for her, a day without olive oil is somewhere between a day without garlic and a day without tomatoes.

This store, with its rows of glass bottles and giant glass tanks of oil, seemed the perfect place to be. Frau Shopkeeper gave me a sample in a little wineglass, and I was already impressed. The bouquet was rich and hearty, the consistency was right, and the coloring was beautiful. The oil was like liquid amber, suffused with its own golden light. But the taste was the best part of all. The oil was smooth, pure, and decadent, with a mouth-coating richness and the faintest hint of spring grass. It was the very essence of olive. After buying a bottle, I jogged towards the train station. I looked up and my heart leaped. A massive, imposing, sandstone gate towered above me, dwarfing everything else. It was the Porta Nigra. Ninety feet tall and 118 feet wide, it is one of the many huge structures that the Romans built when they weren't harvesting olives. I imagined a Roman boy running through the same square, thinking in Latin, trying to make it to a ship on time. Several minutes later, I learned I had missed my train.

That was okay, though. I had a bottle of olive oil.

 

This article appears in its entirety in the May 2008 issue of Duluth~Superior Magazine.
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