Olive You! Olive Me!

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.

Olives from my garden. Photo by D. Khanukayev

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, in another part of the world, these same trees were producing thriving divas.

Then I visited Spain.

My first real olive encounter was in sweltering Sevilla. We’d sat down at an outdoor café for a drink, and when the waitress set our glasses on the table, she also delivered a small plate of curious, round things — black, green, even purple. Intriguing, I thought, as I reached for one.

Stefan, my California friend, was a step ahead.

“Wow,” he blurted out, mid-chew, “these olives are gourmet!”

I sniffed mine suspiciously.

“Tangy, yet bitter! Zesty and fresh!” he continued, eyes wide. “The olives back home have been processed to a flavorless death.”

I cautiously took a bite. Firm, pungent with vinegar, bold and unapologetic — they were alive. Even as I continued my cautious tasting, I felt slightly overpowered, like they were challenging me to continue.

Over time — and over many rounds of cold drinks with their little olive sidekicks — I tasted more varieties. Green, black, wrinkled, crunchy, bitter, herbal, marinated with orange peel, garlic, or pimentón. I came to realize that California olives had been tamed into pitless, lifeless, flavorless black balls. Spanish olives, on the other hand, had been cultivated to be wild, brave, and fully expressive — flaunting their eccentric traits with no apologies.

Here, olives are deep tradition, nearly sacred. They're a birthright, a ritual, a way of life. The contrast? It's like the cows grazing peacefully along Route 66 versus the fierce-eyed fighting bulls of Andalusia. Same species — completely different beasts. And in this case, fruit.

It is now early November, and I see those olive trees drooping with little black fruits, and I want to get involved! Friends and families are heading to the fields, baskets in hand. They showed me the tradition of shaking the branches to harvest them. To Spaniards, it’s their heritage. I now have cultivated a deep respect of the Spanish olive; it’s a symbol of rootedness, resilience, and flavor that refuses to be flattened. ¡Olé