Ode To the Olive
About a year after I had stopped drinking I found myself in Westwood, home of UCLA, hub of young go-getters and tourists, and for some reason, location of a multitude of therapists, counselors, psychiatrists, and other mental health professionals…
This was in the days when they would actually sit and talk with you about your crazy problems, and discuss possible solutions to make your life...well...liveable. That was my reason for being there, a weekly visit that I had sustained for 2 years. It must be true when they say that hope springs eternal, and mine was that this esteemed doctor would give me some potion, elixir, or maybe a shiny key that would open a door to happiness and peace in my troubled mind. Mostly when I left her office though, I felt exactly the same as when I entered, only having dredged up some vague sad memories from childhood which didn't help at all. The most that I gained from these visits was the thought 'Oh, this is why I am the way I am.' There is a tiny drop of peace in that.
Whenever I left the building after our 50 minutes together all I really wanted to do was go shopping. Luckily Westwood is full of stores...not very interesting ones...but places like Staples and Starbucks, safe and dull. There was a Pottery Barn about 3 blocks from her office, and it was there that I had an epiphany. I was wandering the aisles...soup bowls, coffee mugs, color-coordinated...lots of navy blue...I turned a corner, and wham! A display of martini glasses-the kind with the long stem and the cone-shaped top, big and wide and inviting. They were lined up on glass shelves with a mirror behind them, lit from below, delicate but sturdy. I felt exactly the way you would coming face to face with an old boyfriend who looked better than ever....one you had recurring dreams about. In those dreams there was never any actual sex...something always happened and you had to leave him. I stood there transfixed for about 10 minutes, my face hot. I wasn't going to win this time. Clearly that old flame would always burn. I backed away from the display and slunk out the door like a thief.
I've been thinking about false promises. The promise of a romance that could carry you away into the clouds. The promise of that first martini of the evening that would transform you into Grace Kelly in Rear Window. These illusions are delicate yet sturdy. But I want to talk about olives. The green kind with the red pimento stuffed inside that would float around in the gin. When the glass was empty you would eat them and they retained just enough alcohol to be intoxicating on their own. I still love these olives and every time I eat one I can taste a salty promise.
Here is a pesto made with those green olives, far more interesting than the regular basil and pine nut variety.
Green Olive Pesto
1 cup drained Manzanilla olives stuffed with pimento
1 chopped garlic clove
1 cup chopped fresh basil
½ cup chopped fresh Italian parsley
2 tablespoons grated Parmesan
1/3 cup toasted walnuts
1 cup grapeseed oil
Throw everything but the oil in the food processor. First, pulse to break down nuts and herbs, then puree, while streaming in oil. I like to use a more neutral oil for this pesto than the usual olive oil, which I find has too strong a flavor and masks the olives, which is what makes this pesto special. It's a bit salty, so if you use this mixed into grain or on pasta, limit your use of salt in its preparation. This stuff beats a martini any day!