olives + wise words

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Last Monday, I was sitting in the Olive Mill waiting to press our 2011 crop . And No, it's not like 'Under the Tuscan Sun'. It's cold, the air is hazy with fumes from the olives and the machines are really, really noisy. Oh, and I'm the only woman amongst many elderly Italian men.
I do this every year but this year is different. The mill is eerily quiet.
I phoned the press last week and couldn't believe my ears...
“Hi, it's the English woman from Le Caviere. It's that time of year again!”  I said enthusiastically.
I am usually met with a muted chuckle that means it's that mad foreign woman who's trying to grow raspberries and produce organic oil.
“Can I make an appointment on Sunday around 6pm. We start picking on Saturday. I want to get the olives pressed within 24 hours.”
“The mill is closed on Sunday.”
“What?”
“There are no olives in theValtiberina this year. The harvest is terrible. I can't open the mill just for you.”
I couldn't believe it.
I assembled our team on a dull, misty Saturday.
“You know there are no olives on the trees. It's been too hot.”  Began my Housekeeper's husband.
“I don't want to hear it.” I said sharply. “We don't know until we start picking.”
With intrepidation, we gathered our nets and rakes and began to climb the steep olive grove. We soon realised that there were olives, but in strange places. The trees near the wood were laden with fruit but those near the pool were completely bare. The olives were certainly smaller, plump, but smaller.
As the sun broke through the clouds and the crates slowly filled, I was optimistic.
Three days later, exhausted, I arrived at the mill. Meeting Dante and his wife is like coming together with relatives you only see at weddings or funerals. You only see each other once a year but you share a common past, an intimate history of producing olive oil.
Dante loaded the enormous green crates on the weighing station. My heart was pounding.
“11 quintale, a third less than last year.”
Slightly disappointed, I warmed my hands on the fire in the kitchen next door.
Dante peered around the door.
“We're ready.”
The oil trickled though the pipe, then gushed into the vat.
“Oh Signora, look at the colour, it's great.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out a hunk of ciabatta. I dipped the bread into the oil and savoured my first mouthful. Fresh, fruity and peppery. I took a sigh of relief.
Just as I was about to leave, he whispered in my ear.
“Remember, fortune and olives are alike:  sometimes a man has an abundance and other times not any”
I drove away satisfied and inspired as my vats clanked and rattled in the back of the truck. 

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