Last afternoon we loaded up the vehicles (nothing like a Landy Defender for swallowing a whale, but even the littlies did their part and turned round) and took the crop picked by the English squad to the mill. They are all back at their day jobs now but after the first shock of the sheer pain induced by agricultural labour, left still pausing to pick the odd olive off the trees lining the road. We cleared the home fields, the main road (which was christened Olive Drove), and down as far as the water-cooling system, covered for the winter.
Eating the various dishes of game the hunters donate the conversation turned to why some things are regarded as inedible. I couldn't cope with the tiny birds, skewered whole, roasted on a spit in front of the fire, and crunched down, heads, beaks, bones and all followed by spitting out the bits, so beloved of rustic Tuscan life. But the worst offering was from our PR man (who had displayed a remarkable fully-trained childhood working on farms and got the hang of olive picking in a trice, including the vacuous trance needed to keep at it for hours). He had a friend who specialised in cooking the bits of everything the rest of us don't feel happy about eating. Nervously dipping his spoon into a large pot of unnameable stew, he drew out an udder. "You've had those in your mouth before" remarked another exhausted worker, "Often. Did you eat it?"
The oil is simply magnificent. A bright, translucent, well - olive - green, very slightly peppery, as new oil should be. At a stroke the remnants of last year's pathetic crop (struck down by The Fly) has become cooking oil; overnight first cold pressing super virgin... is for chips.
The lower fields towards the village, and the top field that was once the vineyard alla francese but was converted to olives on the abandonment of trying to make a fine French wine from a pig's ear, await the fresh assault on Monday. A third down, two to go. It's usual to mill everything in one go, but olives cannot hang about; once picked they like to be crushed to give of their best. And stakhanovite work inputs were not enough in this year of plenty. Also, we couldn't resist finding out how it would be.
Next year there will have to be some serious investment in lorries and other machinery but for 2008 we returned, just once, to the 17th century.
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2 comments:
Nothing like a bowl of offal to immediately turn you into a vegetarian.The best I can manage is Tripe Lyonnaise. PP said he would love to spend a couple of weeks in Tuscany picking olives,he hasn't read this blog,the back breaking days would soon change his romantic point of view.
I enjoyed every descriptive instalment of this wonderful journey, am sorry its over, not so I'm sure for the hunter gatherers'
There's a very good living to be made with this farm alone it became clear this year. Just that the work is so hard, even with men driving, ploughing, pruning, etc, and cutting down the trees. That's not even beginning on grain, wine, or animals. There's a lot of farm business - paperwork, planning, government offices, permissions, general chitchat. The work is always there, waiting to be done so you never sit down thinking guiltlessly of a glass of white and a read.
I haven't even thought of all the stuff they used to grow and process - flax, corn, irises, medicinal herbs, flowers, fishponds..reeds for baskets, specialised woods for furniture making. All the knowledge you'd need. Chestnuts to gather. The mushrooms are growing like, well, mushrooms in the woods and need picking and sorting and preserving so thank goodness lots of people come and help themselves; they often give a share to us, which is nice.
It's a lifestyle and I'm not sure I'm big enough for it.
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