Old man olive

There are not many better things to do on a Sunday than be up a tree picking olives. I guess one hundred years ago or less, there were plenty of people who would have disagreed with me, it being their living at this time of year. Right now, for me, it is an indulgence. As you are there up in the tree with leaves up your nose, you see the big fat ones that leap into your hand, infact a lot of them fall into the earth below. They sit there in the bowl afterwards, glossy and full of promise. But the best are the small, green ones that if you get the salt and herbs right, burst in your mouth with their almost rancid reminder of the year and weather before.

Old man keeps me company.