Last weekend we were invited to what is, likely, a somewhat mundane, annual chore for many Italians-- the harvesting of olives. We were downright giddy about this & while it was hard work, it was most certainly a labor of love & one of our most special Italian experiences to date. We, along with about 8 other adults, started grabbing, pulling & shearing olives from our landlandy's grove of trees at about 9 am & we didn't wrap up until 7 pm. There was, of course, a gorgeous pranzo (lunch) al fresco—complete with paninis, Arancini (artichoke and rice balls), a generous carafe of vino rosso & a homemade torta (cake). Then, everyone & their families gathered for a celebratory, sit-down dinner; one of the women made a delectable Ribolita that I’m still swooning over.
The harvesting itself was an oddly relaxed, social event, yet we stayed on task & moved swiftly from tree-to-tree until the last fruit was picked. Everyone chatted & worked, worked & chatted. We had gloves for hand-stripping olives from branches & plastic mini-rakes – some hand-held & some with a long wooden handle to access the more out-of-reach spots. Men, boys & our 70-something year old spitfire landlady adeptly climbed the trees to swipe the uppermost olives. We spread out massive nets beneath each tree that we were actively harvesting & when it was bare, the olives were scooped up & transferred to a large burlap sack. As the sun set & the work was completed, we moved to a garage where the amassed treasures were picked through for unwanted branches & leaves then weighed & put into long, rectangular plastic bins for the next day’s transport to the local olive oil press. There were smiles & cheers & comparisons of harvests from years prior. As a thank you, we were given the most massive jug of olive oil I have ever seen (if we never make it back to The States it’ll be because we’re still trying to get through this savory, earth-green, liquid Italian gold).
Caiden spent a good portion of the day side-by-side with the harvesting adults. His climbing skills were put to excellent use as he sought out & captured the most elusive olives. He took breaks & played with his Italian posse of pals & delighted in the end-of-harvest, annual tradition of a bumbling tractor ride through the groves.
At one point, we were picking olives just outside our home. Being someone who always enjoys work with a side of music, I grabbed my iPod. Momentarily, I was stumped on what to play for such a mixed crowd -- ages 6 to 76, Italians & Americans alike. I decided on Dean Martin & upon pressing shuffle “Volare” erupted from the speaker & everyone sang volare, oh oh… cantare, oh oh oh oh…
Yes indeed, olive-harvesting day was one for the books & as Dean so perfectly said—no wonder my happy heart sings.
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