Olives in the raw

When I was traveling through Sonoma County three weeks ago, I stopped in at the Olive Press in Glen Ellen to taste some of their housemade oils. Outside the shop, raw olives were everywhere -- on the ground, on Van Gogh-esque trees, and in bins awaiting brining or pressing. And although I'd eaten a raw olive once before (a not-yet-ripe green one off a tree outside Renoir's house in Cagnes-sur-Mer), apparently I hadn't burned my hands badly enough on the hot stove of extreme bitterness to avoid popping yet another olive into my mouth. This time, I chose a freshly dropped black olive from off the ground, hoping that its increased ripeness would make the taste milder. It didn't. I spit out the small piece of olive meat and tossed the now-lopsided orb into the woods.

Much to my curious delight, the Olive Press didn't have a monopoly on raw olives. I found more on trees at Trefethen Vineyards in the Napa Valley and freshly picked ones at the original Dean & Deluca, just south of Saint Helena. One does not find olive trees on the East Coast, and thus one does not find raw olives. Marveling at the rare fruit, I had a conversation with the produce folks there about shipping some back to Washington so that I could brine my own (using lye, I learned), but the logistics were just too difficult. Do people even do that out east? I find the thought of curing olives appealing in the same way I find baking bread appealing; you're making something edible out of something that's virtually inedible. You're bringing life to it.

I've recently found out the bad news that shipments of raw olives are generally finished until next winter. Until then, I'll have to be content with store-bought cured olives. In the meantime, I'm stocking up on lye.