this orchard,” she said. “Cause there’ll be hell to pay if he does.” Then she downed the entire cup of espresso and gently placed the cup back on its white saucer, her charm bracelet of diamond studded Elvises, a bracelet I hadn’t seen in years, clinked against the china.
I left my mother sitting in my rocking chair sipping her third cup of double espresso, decaf this time, while I took a quick shower, weighed myself like always—one-twenty, almost the ideal weight for my five-foot-four inch frame—got dressed in a comfy, black velour Juicy Couture tracksuit with a cute little sprinkling of silver stones, over a pink Banana Republic tee, and pulled on cozy, chocolate colored Uggs. Just because I lived on an olive ranch didn’t mean I didn’t do fashion. Granted, Juicy Couture and Banana Republic weren’t exactly high end, but at least they were still in the game. I then hurried through a decent amount of makeup—lip gloss, mascara and blush—and pulled my unmanageable dark-brown hair up into a wet pony tail. Thankfully, by the time I was presentable Mom had finished her espresso and disappeared.
Nothing like a morning visit from my stressed-out mother to brighten my day.
But I refused to let my family throw a bomb into my otherwise happy vacation mood. Taking in a few cleansing breaths, I crossed my studio apartment to the kitchen area. I needed my morning tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil in a bad way. Just one tablespoon per day on an empty stomach kept my skin glowing, my digestive system working, and connected me to Sofia Loren who, it was said, had the same morning ritual.
I opened the cupboard and pulled out an unopened bottle of our award winning Sevillano, made mostly from a Spanish olive with a nutty flavor and a medium intensity. At any one time, I kept about five to ten open bottles of various types of Spia’s Olive Press oils in my cupboard. We all did. Olive oil was our life.
I uncorked it and took in the fragrant scent, then poured a generous tablespoon into a tiny plastic cup, the same ones we used in our tasting room. In order to get the full effect of an olive oil you needed to pour some on your tongue, then clench your teeth and suck it to the back of your throat. It could have a pleasantly bitter taste, like some Italian oils, or a smooth nutty flavor, like a few of the Spanish oils or even a bright fruity flavor with a subtle peppery finish ideal for salad greens, or grilling seafood.
Whenever I thought about our oils, I mentally practiced the description that went with them. It took me months to get the hang of sounding like I knew what I was talking about as opposed to an olive oil greenhorn, which was one of the nicer things my family said about me.
This one was a perfect blend, with just a hint of bitterness for added flavor. Now olive oils acted as aroma therapy on me, and Sevillano was one of my favorites. It usually made me feel all blissful, and sexy, but no matter how much I inhaled its pungent fragrance or felt the smooth golden liquid on my tongue, I couldn’t quite get that feeling going.
Just as well, there was no one around to be blissfully sexual with.
I sighed, poured enough oil in a frying pan to coat the bottom, tossed in a little chopped garlic and let that cook for a bit. Then I added onion and cilantro, tossed that around until the onion became opaque and the garlic was just about to brown. I threw in two handfuls of pre-cooked linguini, broke an egg into a bowl, whisked until it began to foam then added it to the pan. I stirred that around in the hot oil until the egg was almost cooked, tossed in chunks of a buttery avocado, a chopped Roma tomato, a little water, more olive oil, a three-finger pinch of hot pepper flakes, and two cranks of black pepper. When the egg was cooked through, I slipped the steaming pasta mixture into a yellow bowl, drizzled our hot pepper Italian blend olive oil over it, sprinkled on a mixture of chopped fresh Italian parsley, spring onions, pitted Gaeta olives, and finely grated parmesan cheese. Then I sat down to feast. I was desperate for some comfort food.
Cooking always seemed to sooth me. It was one of the few domestic chores