November 18, 2007
Today marks my three-week anniversary on the farm. Exactly a year ago, I was on a Frontier Airlines flight from Denver to NYC, hiding behind big sunglasses, ridiculously hungover from the closing night party at the Denver Film Festival. This morning I fertilized olive trees. Here’s to life’s fluid evolution…
I am hosting a Thanksgiving fest at the farm on Thursday. Barbara called the butcher last night and he is on a mad search for a Turkey. He’ll let us know what he comes up with on Monday morning. We’ve invited a mix of Toscana friends new and old… guests so far include Team Olive, Alberto & Anna, and Robert & Elizabeth. I have yet to meet Robert, husband of Elizabeth (artist & children’s book author) but he runs a hot air balloon company, and word is that he eats and drinks like a true Englishman. I have put an urgent request into my mother and sister to email me very, very explicitly detailed recipes, as I am now completely in charge of this dinner. I have, however, successfully recruited Team Olive as my sous chefs.
It’s been an interesting shift in dynamic since the boys arrived. Or perhaps, better said, an interesting shift in my own personal experience. When I was here alone with Barbara & Ugo, every observation, every perception, every conversation, and every new, silly, tense, or intimate moment, somehow belonged to me. And now I’m going back to kindergarten to learn how to share. I am not quite sure how to describe the five-some that is Max, Adam, Barbara, Ugo, and myself, though I know that I find it as natural and comfortable as I do odd. Sometimes I want to slam my head against the wall (very hard stone) because no one seems to fit any role in my Tuscan fairytale. But more often, I thank and embrace them for enabling a alternate version ( read: black comedy) of my fairytale to exist. Life is made up of all kinds. And sometimes it’s hard to let anything resembling a cloud move into a clear and perfect setting. As ideal and romantic of a niche as I may have found here, the more it becomes my own niche, the more it becomes real life. And with that shift, people’s complexities, secrets, insecurities, and fears begin to color the landscape. Making for a different, though richer, more truthful landscape.
A Three Week Retrospective: Addendum
I have come to the big city for a quick visit to the internet café. Only have a few moments, but must briefly attempt to detail the past 24 hours. I think they may sum up the fabulously bizarre reality that has become my life here.
10:30am: I help Adam clean and roll up the olive nets. Back in the box they go until next year when a new helper takes on my previous role of olive net seamstress.
11am: Armed with book, journal, wallet, and my feet, I depart Podere Trove. I am taking the morning off to stroll into town and spend a little alone time without the fellow campers and head counselors. I am also in need of some slight retail therapy. Previously, I have spotted a shop in Petroio (the only one) filled with all handknit sweaters, linens, etc. I am at the farm without gloves, and am hoping to satisfy my desire for something new while solving my need to warm the ol’ olive picking hands.
11:02am: I bump into Anna, Alberto, and their two friends who are visiting from Milan. They are out walking the dogs and we meet on the path just down the hill from the farm. They invite me to come over whenever I am done having “Katie” time, and we decide that I will come by for lunch.
11:30am: The knit shop is closed.
11:31am: I enter Palazzo Brandano. The four-star hotel and restaurant that happens to be in Petroio. I have come here a few days before with Adam, and we meet the managers, Osmond and Jorgen, who give us free drinks and, since it’s off season, welcome and encourage our company. During this initial visit, I notice that the bathrooms are equipped with heat lights, and I make a mental note to utilize Palazzo Brandano as often as possible. And so, I am back. Jorgen makes me a cappuccino and I sit in the sun on the terrace with my book, and it is like looking at a painting, except it’s all real. When I ask Jorgen what I can pay him for the cappuccino, he responds, how about a dinner invitation? So, I invite Jorgen to the farm for the Thanksgiving fest, but he cannot come, and becomes incredibly red and embarrassed that he has actually asked me to dinner. I also learn that the knit shop is never actually open. You have to call one of the old ladies on the phone or physically knock on their door if you want them to open the shop for you to browse.
12:15pm: I walk to Alberto & Anna’s with my red riding hood on. I only take one wrong turn on the path, and get barked at by one dog.
12:30pm: Anna and her friend, Antionella are in the kitchen preparing lunch. Alberto takes Phillipo (Antionella’s husband) and me downstairs to the test cellar. Now I am tasting the wines of 7 different grape barrells for breakfast. Anna and Alberto have coined me “The Wine Spectator” (they actually introduced me in a restaurant the other night as “The Wine Spectator from New York City” and we received a second bottle of wine), all of which I find ridiculously amusing and really quite flattering.
12:45pm We have tasted the wines and discussed their changes and current stages. I am sufficiently giggly.
1pm: We sit down to a delicious lunch of pasta and frittata with truffles.
3pm: With a full stomach and quite a few glasses of vino in my system, I call Barbara & Ugo to tell them I will not be of much use to work on the farm in the afternoon. Especially if it involves driving a tractor. They are also taking the afternoon off to visit a neighboring town, so all works out perfectly.
Between 3pm and 8pm:
Alberto takes out the guitar and our concerto begins. Phillippo (who speaks no English) and I sing Pink Floyd and an entire array of Eric Clapton songs. I am once again translating the meaning of “Wish You Were Here” and “Stairway to Heaven.” I have somehow been deemed lead singer. Anna comes downstairs with her hair in foils. Antoinella is a hairstylist in Milan, and has just put fresh highlights in her hair. There is more singing. I am told to stay for dinner and am offered a shower. My hair could be used to make olive oil, so I accept without much in the way of hesitation. Somehow we all find ourselves back in the kitchen talking, cooking, and opening more wine.
8pm: A light pasta dinner. More vino.
9:30pm: My hip hop moves have made their debut at my first Tuscan dance party. Anna’s ipod has us dancing to the likes of Ricky Martin, Madonna, and Jennifer Lopez.
10pm: I am choreographing a routine to “Thriller” while translating the meaning behind Michael Jackson’s lyrics. Where is the camera?
Fast forward to 8:30am this morning.
I wake up and think maybe I am still inebriated. The wine and grappa fest continued well past midnight. (At 2am however, I did manage to find my way to the clothesline and locate my sweatpants, which thankfully were dry, or I would have been sleeping in jeans that tend to be a bit restricting these days)
10am: Group field trip to the Tuesday morning market in town.
10:30 am: Ugo and I simultaneously feel the magnetic pull to the porchetta sandwich stand. I think either I have had one too many porchetta’s, or am slightly losing my mind (or both) because I am certain that I recognize the man behind the counter. I mention this to Ugo and he says, of course, that is the waiter from the restaurant we went two weeks back. He and his mother also own the porchetta stand. Ugo orders us each a glass of vino with our sandwich, and whaddayaknow, I seem to be drinking wine for breakfast again. For 5 Euro, Ugo and I each have a panino and 2 plastic cups of wine (as he felt the need for a refill). We do the vegetable shopping for the Thanksgiving dinner feast, and I buy a pair of fleece gloves. Minor retail therapy accomplished and major happiness for my hands.
Noon: I am at the supermarket, walking the aisles with Ugo and my blackberry, scanning my Thanksgiving ingredient list courtesy of my mother and sister. I actually find pearl onions in Italy! And have bought so many sacks of potatoes, we may be eating them through December.
Now am finishing up at the internet café and then back to the casa. The guest list for Thursday has increased to 11, and I have two days to learn how to cook…
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Olio, Olio, Olio
I am no longer a virgin olive picker. The first crate of Podere Trove 2007 olives was successfully picked by yours truly November 9, 2007.
Five days and a finely trained pair of picker’s hands later…it is a very rainy and cold Toscana Wednesday. No picking today. We were planning to finish the harvest by days end and to take the olives to the press tomorrow, but the skies have told us otherwise. Instead, we spent the morning bottling wine, and the afternoon zoning out in front of the fire. I’m still in my pajamas. The weather gods are threatening snow tomorrow, so we may be in store for another day of greasy hair and comfort food here at Camp Olive.
The crop is actually a bit disappointing this year. Very few olives. Mostly climate and drought related, but also due in part to the lack of pruning and maintenance to the trees after last year’s harvest. With under 5 crates picked, we will be lucky to get 20 kilos of oil, in comparison to the 120 kilos they got last year. In other words, don’t wait by your door for a FedEx bottle of Olio to arrive.
Team Olive ’07 is quite a laugh. Adam, Max, Ugo, and the lone lady, moi. Adam is a 27 year old Aussie, easy-going, patient, good guy. He has been living and working in London for the past year, and just completed the Camino, the 800K, 37 day walk across northern Spain before arriving here. In reference to the title of this blog, I will also note that Adam has a long-term girlfriend.
Max is a charming, intriguing character. He is 67 (single & looking) and has lived and traveled all over the world. He drove his caravan here from Bulgaria. I am still having trouble grasping the road maps for that. He is one of the most even–tempered, tolerant men I’ve ever come across. A strict vegetarian (and computer software consultant), Max runs 10K every other day, and today, took the day off to go in search of Muesili somewhere in Southern Tuscany. What a nut. I don’t think that Max or Adam have one ounce of body fat between them, so I, being the team player that I am, am storing their allotted amount on me.
And, of course, there’s Ugo. The Olive Boss Man. Ugo spends the majority of the day on a ladder in a tree, cursing at the branches. Ugo is a thorough, passionate (and stubborn) soul, but I am not sure that Ugo is synonymous with efficient. Enter Katie. I have felt a bit like the olive picker production coordinator, location scout, cheerleader, director, producer & supervisor of attempted efficiency. Go figure. But note, when trying to accomplish a time sensitive task, sometimes it is inefficient to load a surplus tractor with a few light-weight items to drive said tractor less than 50 feet. Especially when everyone has to walk to the same place as the tractor’s intended destination. Just pick up the equipment and go. And with 4 people and nearly 200 trees, I thought it wise to reduce the level of haphazard picking and doubling of efforts, and to develop some sort of strategic picking roles and order. Ha! That’s when I learned to keep my mouth shut and go to the kitchen where a woman belongs. Just kidding. (Though Barbara did teach me how to make her pesto the other day and I am still practicing Tuscan domestic goddess-ism).
Team Olive shared some good laughs, and exquisitely beautiful sunny days. A few where I had to stop and remind myself that my entire goal for the day was to pick as many olives off of the tree in front of me as possible. To take a deep breath, appreciate the infinite rolling hills on the horizon, and all of the characters surrounding me. And at that point, who gives a shit about methodical picking?
Italian farmers may beg to differ, but I think that we have given these trees so much to smile about, we have essentially guaranteed them health and abundance in the year to come.
Allora.
In case you pass a tree on Fifth Avenue, some techniques for your picking pleasure:
____________________________________________________________________
An Anecdote
At 11:33 this morning, I received an email with the subject line:
“Ciao baby, I hope to see you in N.Y.C on Nov 23rd”
The email continued:
I hope you remember me, Michaelangeloleather.it Florence, Italy?
Aha! Alberto the Florence leather store owner. The note went on to ask me out for dinner during his 2 day trip to New York. Let us remember that Alberto is somewhere in his 50’s and wears some sort of eyeliner. Most unfortunately, I will still be in Toscana.
In other male news:
I was also asked out by Marco, the train conductor. On my way home from a day trip to Arezzo, Marco, instead of collecting my ticket, sat in the seat across from me and started to chat. As tends to happen when I engage in these conversations because I think of them as harmless, fun Italian practice, this conversation resulted in my declining interest in a “date.” Marco resembled Chris Farley, with a little more teddy bear in his face. And when Marco put his hand on my leg, I thought, hmmm, wait a minute, I would not tolerate this on an Amtrak train. And that is when I told Marco enough. Marco was a bit over the top in his heartbroken reaction to my lack of desire to see him again, and this is when another woman on the train, a daily commuter, told me that, yes, indeed, Marco is just a little bit crazy.
To top it off, the animals, though all male, have decided to slumber party in my bedroom. I woke up at 4am the other night, surprisingly warm (positive effect of excess carbohydrates?) and upon reaching down to remove my ski socks, found my legs wedged between two cats. While Billy the dog was snoring on the floor.
_____________________________________________________________________
A Second Anecdote
It’s 8:30pm and its fucken cold. I’m wrapped in more fleece than I would ski in, and yet, there seems to be no snow or slopes. There is, however, an abundance of bare olive trees!
We finished the harvest and picked up our oil from the press this evening. I think everyone was a bit tired and disappointed with the small amount of oil, but I think it was quite a celebration to eat dinner tonight with our own bottle of oil adorning the table. At least for me, it was pretty special to soak a slab of bread in the oil that comes from the olives that we hand –picked. (Or bamboo-bashed). Not exactly an every day affair.
And now, quite full on too much bread and oil, a Tuscan facial is in order. This is when I boil a huge pot of water over the stove and stick my face in the steam. A perfect way to feel clean, yet remain fully clothed through out the process.
Minor confession: I cheated and took a real shower last week. Alberto & Anna practically forced me into one of their four exquisitely beautiful marble showers. And I didn’t do much in the way of resisting. Tiles, jets, excellent water pressure, and Anna has an exceptional array of products.
Five days and a finely trained pair of picker’s hands later…it is a very rainy and cold Toscana Wednesday. No picking today. We were planning to finish the harvest by days end and to take the olives to the press tomorrow, but the skies have told us otherwise. Instead, we spent the morning bottling wine, and the afternoon zoning out in front of the fire. I’m still in my pajamas. The weather gods are threatening snow tomorrow, so we may be in store for another day of greasy hair and comfort food here at Camp Olive.
The crop is actually a bit disappointing this year. Very few olives. Mostly climate and drought related, but also due in part to the lack of pruning and maintenance to the trees after last year’s harvest. With under 5 crates picked, we will be lucky to get 20 kilos of oil, in comparison to the 120 kilos they got last year. In other words, don’t wait by your door for a FedEx bottle of Olio to arrive.
Team Olive ’07 is quite a laugh. Adam, Max, Ugo, and the lone lady, moi. Adam is a 27 year old Aussie, easy-going, patient, good guy. He has been living and working in London for the past year, and just completed the Camino, the 800K, 37 day walk across northern Spain before arriving here. In reference to the title of this blog, I will also note that Adam has a long-term girlfriend.
Max is a charming, intriguing character. He is 67 (single & looking) and has lived and traveled all over the world. He drove his caravan here from Bulgaria. I am still having trouble grasping the road maps for that. He is one of the most even–tempered, tolerant men I’ve ever come across. A strict vegetarian (and computer software consultant), Max runs 10K every other day, and today, took the day off to go in search of Muesili somewhere in Southern Tuscany. What a nut. I don’t think that Max or Adam have one ounce of body fat between them, so I, being the team player that I am, am storing their allotted amount on me.
And, of course, there’s Ugo. The Olive Boss Man. Ugo spends the majority of the day on a ladder in a tree, cursing at the branches. Ugo is a thorough, passionate (and stubborn) soul, but I am not sure that Ugo is synonymous with efficient. Enter Katie. I have felt a bit like the olive picker production coordinator, location scout, cheerleader, director, producer & supervisor of attempted efficiency. Go figure. But note, when trying to accomplish a time sensitive task, sometimes it is inefficient to load a surplus tractor with a few light-weight items to drive said tractor less than 50 feet. Especially when everyone has to walk to the same place as the tractor’s intended destination. Just pick up the equipment and go. And with 4 people and nearly 200 trees, I thought it wise to reduce the level of haphazard picking and doubling of efforts, and to develop some sort of strategic picking roles and order. Ha! That’s when I learned to keep my mouth shut and go to the kitchen where a woman belongs. Just kidding. (Though Barbara did teach me how to make her pesto the other day and I am still practicing Tuscan domestic goddess-ism).
Team Olive shared some good laughs, and exquisitely beautiful sunny days. A few where I had to stop and remind myself that my entire goal for the day was to pick as many olives off of the tree in front of me as possible. To take a deep breath, appreciate the infinite rolling hills on the horizon, and all of the characters surrounding me. And at that point, who gives a shit about methodical picking?
Italian farmers may beg to differ, but I think that we have given these trees so much to smile about, we have essentially guaranteed them health and abundance in the year to come.
Allora.
In case you pass a tree on Fifth Avenue, some techniques for your picking pleasure:
The Basic Grab
This is olive picking in its purest, simplest form. All you need are your hands. Clean or dirty. Think of picking a raspberry off of a bush, or a single grape off of a vine. This is an excellent technique for the lower branches of a tall tree, or for the totality of a smaller sized tree. Merely pick the olive and drop directly into your crate or basket.
Note: The utilization of this technique often results in random olives stored, and hopefully later found, in pant, shirt, and coat pockets.
The Milk The Cow
This technique utilizes the Olive Picker’s Glove. The OPG is a form fitting cotton glove, adorned with little rubber nubbies on the surface of the palm. Think “tote” socks, but for the hands. This technique also utilizes the Olive Net. The Olive Net is a huge mesh net that surrounds the base of the tree and prevents the olives from falling to the ground. It is really like one big tree bib. With a periphery of sticks hammered into the ground, the edge of the net is raised and rested over the sticks, providing a lip that allows for the falling olives to land on the net instead of scattering across the ground. When performing the “Milk The Cow” (Note: these are not yet universal picking terms, but merely, Katie’s terms) place one hand over the other and smoothly move down the branch, letting all olives fall to the net beneath you.
The Bamboo Bash
A favorite of mine. Though I’m not sure it is totally kosher with the more hard-core pickers. This technique involves a long bamboo cane that you beat & shake the branches with until the olives fall to the net. Very similar to a birthday party game of piñata. You can work up a good sweat with this technique, and it is incredibly satisfying when a strategically placed whack frees a very stubborn olive.
The Ladder Techniques: A Subset
All of the above techniques can also be performed while on a ladder in the tree. Additional techniques used with the ladder include the sawing off of and pruning of branches. Often I supervise the ladder techniques from my home base on the ground, as I am not always keen on climbing the “sturdy” ladder that is resting against the “sturdy” branches. Especially after a lunch with Vino Rosso and a shot of Bulgarian Vodka.
____________________________________________________________________
An Anecdote
At 11:33 this morning, I received an email with the subject line:
“Ciao baby, I hope to see you in N.Y.C on Nov 23rd”
The email continued:
I hope you remember me, Michaelangeloleather.it Florence, Italy?
Aha! Alberto the Florence leather store owner. The note went on to ask me out for dinner during his 2 day trip to New York. Let us remember that Alberto is somewhere in his 50’s and wears some sort of eyeliner. Most unfortunately, I will still be in Toscana.
In other male news:
I was also asked out by Marco, the train conductor. On my way home from a day trip to Arezzo, Marco, instead of collecting my ticket, sat in the seat across from me and started to chat. As tends to happen when I engage in these conversations because I think of them as harmless, fun Italian practice, this conversation resulted in my declining interest in a “date.” Marco resembled Chris Farley, with a little more teddy bear in his face. And when Marco put his hand on my leg, I thought, hmmm, wait a minute, I would not tolerate this on an Amtrak train. And that is when I told Marco enough. Marco was a bit over the top in his heartbroken reaction to my lack of desire to see him again, and this is when another woman on the train, a daily commuter, told me that, yes, indeed, Marco is just a little bit crazy.
To top it off, the animals, though all male, have decided to slumber party in my bedroom. I woke up at 4am the other night, surprisingly warm (positive effect of excess carbohydrates?) and upon reaching down to remove my ski socks, found my legs wedged between two cats. While Billy the dog was snoring on the floor.
_____________________________________________________________________
A Second Anecdote
It’s 8:30pm and its fucken cold. I’m wrapped in more fleece than I would ski in, and yet, there seems to be no snow or slopes. There is, however, an abundance of bare olive trees!
We finished the harvest and picked up our oil from the press this evening. I think everyone was a bit tired and disappointed with the small amount of oil, but I think it was quite a celebration to eat dinner tonight with our own bottle of oil adorning the table. At least for me, it was pretty special to soak a slab of bread in the oil that comes from the olives that we hand –picked. (Or bamboo-bashed). Not exactly an every day affair.
And now, quite full on too much bread and oil, a Tuscan facial is in order. This is when I boil a huge pot of water over the stove and stick my face in the steam. A perfect way to feel clean, yet remain fully clothed through out the process.
Minor confession: I cheated and took a real shower last week. Alberto & Anna practically forced me into one of their four exquisitely beautiful marble showers. And I didn’t do much in the way of resisting. Tiles, jets, excellent water pressure, and Anna has an exceptional array of products.
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