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As a kid in California, I thought olives were... fine. Nothing special. They came in two varieties: black, with barely any flavor, or green and stuffed with pimientos. That was it. They tasted like the jar — flat, timid, and bland. We put them on pizza and... well, I can’t think of much else. Sure, olive trees grew in California. I loved their silvery-green leaves and gnarled bark, ancient and wise. But their fruit? Always a disappointment. I never would have guessed that,