Olive Olive You, Olives

Please forgive the pun that is the title of this post, but darn it, I DO love all of you, olives.



It's weird. I used to hate olives. I'd pick them off my pizza and out of my nachos (and I still do. Seriously, who puts olives in mexican food? That doesn't make any sense.) I resisted any attempts by foodies to make me eat olives. Then, one day, magically, I discovered that olives are actually delicious. I love the green buttery ones, the mushy black ones, the hearty monster black and green olives with the firm flesh and stubborn pits. I love the brine. I could eat an entire tub of fancy olives in one sitting. I have to force myself to put them back in the fridge.

I realized recently why I thought I didn't like olives. It's the same reason my mother insists she doesn't care for curry: she never had good curry, and I never had good olives. The disgusting black pearl olives they slice thin on pizzas are better described as olive-flavored gummy rings, in the same way watermelon Dubble Bubble approachs the taste of watermelon, but never achieves it. Like the way a prison b.j. could almost pass for the kind from a lady, but you know it's not.

I give real olives a couple dozen discarded pits.