Olive Picking

I spent a wonderful, thoroughly Italian afternoon today doing something that I’ve been looking forward to for a long time. It’s November, and time for the last harvest before the contadini settle down for the winter: time to go olive picking!
Harvesting the olives is not as simple as one might imagine. They can’t be picked unless they are dry, and when it’s been cloudy and mostly rainy for about two weeks, sunny afternoons like this one are precious. We all walked along the road to Montecasale and up to the grove, just across the torrente Afra. The ground was muddy, but not terribly so.
Picking the olives reminded me a lot of blueberry picking. The trees are not much taller than the bushes, and the silver-green leaves have a similar shape. Olives, however, are much easier to pick. A big mesh net is spread out under the tree and propped up with short bamboo sticks. Then you take the long hanging branches in your hands and strip off all of the olives, using a motion similar to milking a cow (although I can say from personal experience that there is a lot less squeezing involved). You have to be sensitive to the feel of the leaves and the olives, because the stems are tough and take a bit of tugging, and if you don’t let the branch go carefully, it can snap back and smack you in the face (again, this is from personal experience). The leaves have little sharp points on the ends, and all I can say is that for once, I was glad I have to wear glasses. Everyone around the tree just drops the olives and whatever leaves that come off as well into the net, which is later gathered up and the olives poured out into big oval buckets. When you crush one of the soft, purple-black fruits between your fingers, the juice is oddly wet and slightly oily.

The olive farmers were friendly, in a gruff sort of way. Working with someone seems to be the best way to overcome the language barrier, in my opinion. We also had some animal companionship in the form of a rather quirky cat. He loved sitting in inconvenient places and climbing the trees. Eventually, he got a bit feisty and started batting at our hands, which was cute until he took a swipe at Mr. Ed’s head. He attached himself to my scarf and refused to let go, and I had to practically pry it out from between his teeth and claws.

I stayed a bit later than the other students, because I didn’t have a bicycle and was catching a ride with the Bankers back to the palazzo. I was having so much fun anyway that I didn’t want to leave, which had its own rewards. Italian contadini hospitality is much like that of the American South…you simply can’t get away without eating or drinking something. Instead of iced tea, however, everyone here finishes off a long job with vin santo. This is Italy… The obvious excuse is that you need some warming up after working until dusk outside on a cold November day. But I think they’d serve vino anyway…freddo or not.