A Sweet Runion

Not wanting to wake our soundly sleeping goon when we got back to my parents' house last night after many hours of traveling, I had to wait until I heard her stirring this morning before I could go in and see her face and let her see me and let her know that, yes, we really did come back. My folks had reminded me of how I behaved when they came to retrieve me from my week away from them, when they let me stay with my grandmother in North Carolina. They imagined me rushing into their open arms, but instead they found their girl, wounded and mistrustful, inching around the perimeter and retreating to the farthest point of my aunt's lawn. I punished them (and my grandmother) for the next ten years. This seemed unlikely to come from our loving child, but I was told that I'd been very sweet, myself, until that week away from them. I didn't want to delude myself into thinking that flowers would float down from the sky as Olive and I embraced and danced to rejoice our reunion, so I steeled myself for the worst.

When I first heard her chattering happily in her crib down the hall, I hurriedly went to grab her. I opened the door and she saw me; a look of confusion quickly passed over her face then a bewildered grin. She clambered up and held out her arms to me. The tightest, longest hugs I've ever been given by someone so small filled a large part of my day. She wanted precious little to do with my mother, though, and she nervously waved her off each time she got too near. That will pass, I'm sure; she's far too sweet to hold grudges for long. That valuable trait, needless to say, is one she inherited from her father.

Oh, how sweet it is to be back together again, our family just as it should be.

Decompressing

It's going to take me a few days to come down from my experience at the Robert Mondavi Institute at UC Davis. I nearly cried when the course was drawing to a close and we were applauding everyone who made it possible. It's not that I developed close bonds with anyone there, but the intensity of the two days, paired with the fervor that continues to build within me over the ever-so-complex world of olive oil, my new and overwhelming love of Napa, Sonoma, and Yolo counties, and not seeing my sweet child since Tuesday morning just about put me over the edge. I kept it together, though, thanked the organizer, told him I hoped to be back next year, and beat a hasty retreat to my patient husband who was waiting by the curb in our Chevy Malibu rental after he'd spent the morning meandering through downtown Sacramento in the rain. Next time he can take the course with me. I can see that this is going to become a yearly trip for us, and we will definitely be bringing Olive. She's done pretty well at my parents' house, but I know she's a little mistrustful of us. I'm not expecting a a cheerful welcome when we return, and if there is then it'll be a pleasant surprise.

We're winding down with our last two days here, with only a few things on the agenda: a run for me, a wildflower walk, a visit to the Culinary Institute of America's Oleoteca, dinner at Zuzu, the tapas restaurant where we attempted to eat last night but the wait was too long, then San Francisco tomorrow.

I'm working on compiling a list of the most eye-opening things I learned in the UC Davis course and will post that soon.

An Onslaught of Oily Information

The fun thing about taking over this business is the learning that accompanies it. Many aren't aware of the wealth of information there is about the olive oil industry, and I've been devouring every bit I find. Last night over dinner, after my first day of the two-day course, Bruce asked me if I thought it was worth the trip (come on, Bruce). It was, and then some. I was expecting great things. UC Davis' Olive Center is at the top of the game, so I knew I'd be learning from the best of the best. The only problem was that the course wasn't long enough; fourteen-fifteen hours of lecturing and tasting and evaluating was only the tip of the iceberg. I really don't know where to begin when talking about what I got out of this. A list, in no specific order, will have to do.

1. I now know how to taste and determine whether an oil is defective, usually just by aroma alone, a skill that will go a long way in this business.

2. Flavored olive oils, legally, cannot be called extra virgin, regardless of the grade of the base oil. If something other than olive oil is added to it, its extra virginity status is forever sullied. Also, "infused" is often an incorrect term when applied to olive oils. For instance, our flavored oils are produced by pressing fruit or herbs in with the olives all in one fell swoop rather than adding the flavors later. That is the difference.

3. Furthermore, those popular at-home oil infusions are a bad idea. People think, "Oh hey, I don't need to buy this $12 garlic-infused olive oil 'cause I got 'dat plastic gallon of eevoo from Costco at home and I can just put garlic in it." I can see where people might think this is a brilliant idea...except for the whole botulism thing. That's right. Adding anything with moisture to a bottle of olive oil will cause anaerobic activity that creates the perfect environment for this particular toxin. No, thanks. DIY stuff is cool, usually, just not in this case.

4. The extra virgin grade is virtually meaningless. The current standard is so low that even perfectly wretched, rancid oils, could at least meet the very high minimum requirement of .8% free fatty acid content. In fact, even .5% is pretty bad news. Of the good, defect-free oils that I tasted, .3% was the highest. To clarify the free fatty acid (FFA) bit, this term has nothing to do with acidity in the pH sense but in the molecular sense. The more FFAs, the more unstable the oil, and shorter the shelf life. I'm no chemist, so that's the best way for me to explain it, though I came away with a much clearer understanding of what it means.

5. Italy does not produce enough olive oil to meet the demands for Italians' consumption. This is why they really aren't (with very few exceptions) exporting any of their own oil. If consumers are fine with buying something that says "PRODUCT OF ITALY" and is actually a product of Spain, Greece, Morocco, and Tunisia, then no big deal. I'm just a fan of transparency in marketing.

6. I will never in a million years try oil from Morocco. As it turns out, different cultures have very different quality standards for their food. Moroccans, as a group, actually prefer fusty oil (and rancid butter). They purposefully produce fusty olive oils because that's what they've come to know as good oil. Olives are given days, sometimes even weeks, to sit in filthy sacks before being fed through the mill. You can imagine what these olives look like. Nasty, nasty yuck. I will say, though, that they do up their standards a little for export, but only a little.

7. Sometimes when a producer has a surplus of table olives (cured, brined, fermented fruit), they'll press these to get the oil. When consumers describe an oil as "olive-y", this is usually what they mean - possessing the taste of a canned or jarred olive - since that's what most people recognize, not the flavor of a fresh olive.

8. I get asked this every day I work, at least five times: "Do you make this?" True, some folks don't realize that olives and the climate of western Pennsylvania are incompatible, to say the least. But then there are those who think, "Duh. I know they don't grow here. I just figured you imported the olives and pressed them at your house." Yes, at my house. This is always a funny joke to me, though I realize that's never the intent, so I have a private chuckle. I always explain to the overoptimistic questioner that, in order to produce quality oil, the fruit must be pressed within twenty-four hours of being picked. Many mills with stricter standards (and, wouldn't you know, better oils) will press within three hours, some in as few as twenty-five minutes. These mills are concerned with churning out the freshest oils possible. Then there are the mills who will wait four days, at which point the oils are guaranteed to be fusty, not to mention rancid. After six days between the tree and the mill, fungus will take hold, and plenty of mills have no qualms with tossing fuzzy, moldy olives down the hatch. They know that if they bottle it and it gets put on the shelf in the Super Fresh, someone will buy it. It's really a lot like Upton Sinclair's 'The Jungle', but with olive oil instead of the meatpacking industry.

I know there are other things I will want to mention later when I remember them. I did not take many notes during the course since we moved pretty quickly, but the information will be available to me soon so I can go back and revisit the Powerpoint slides and jot things down at my leisure.

Napa!

Last night we arrived, weary and achy from hours of travel, at the Green Valley Ranch, our friends' home in Napa. We met up with Bruce near a Denny's where we followed him through the winding roads and up the several-miles-long driveway that led to his home, a sprawling expanse of corrugated metal and glass (way nicer than it sounds). I can't tell you how hard it was to tear myself from a newly under the weather Olive when she and my mom dropped us off at the airport. The night before she was stricken with a throaty cough and fever that made her want to do little but lay limply on my chest, regularly turning her head to cool her burning neck and cheek. Part of me considered forgoing the much-antipated trip to stay with her, but once we saw Bruce, then pulled in at the ranch, I knew I'd have no reservations about being away. The fatigue was dulled by the reunion over a light dinner of Moroccan lentil soup (the same recipe my mother uses) and a loaf of olive-studded bread. I would've loved to stay up past eleven, but it was already two in Eastern Standard Time, and I'd been awake since 5:30 so we retreated to our wing of the house that consists of a guest room, Bruce's music room, and a bathroom. With a light rain hitting the corrugated metal roof over our heads, I slipped into a remarkably quick sleep. In the morning I woke to see the ranch in daylight:

I stared around the acres and acres (there are one thousand here) of green, rolling hills dotted with rocks, trees, and cattle. We came down for breakfast at 8:30, talked olive oil and tasted spoonfuls of their supply, then were treated to another of Romeo's divine meals. His chanterelle hash was wonderful. Biodynamic local strawberry and apricot jams were also heartbreakingly good. I ate, for the first time, fried poached eggs. Pretty nice.

Bruce took us in his car for a tour around the ranch, over miles of road that cover the property, showing me good places to run. We ran into a beekeeper delivering bees, setting them out to do what they do amongst the wildflowers that began opening in today's sun. Rob spied a rocky bluff in the distance and declared that he'd like to hike to that point, so when we got back to the house, he, the dogs, Iggy and Annie, and I took off to scale the hillside.

"Robber's Ridge" is that rocky outcropping on the far left of the hill

It was a glorious hike, and the weather, which was overcast earlier in the morning, had turned warm and bright. It was, without question, the best hike I'd ever taken. A brief run followed, then Bruce suggested that the four of us go up to St. Helena to check out some of the olive oil shops. The drive there took us all the way through the Napa Valley, where I was stunned by the number of vineyards; the uniform rows of grapevines and gargantuan wineries was dizzying. If I was a wine drinker I'd have gone round the bend, I think, but as it was, I was fixated on the olive trees. When we got to St. Helena the oil shop Bruce had had in mine was closing as we got there, but I was able to take some pictures and gather some ideas for my business. We popped into another store, Olivier, and sampled their oils and vinegars. While not blown away by what they had, I did decide that I absolutely must one day get copper fustis to hold my oils. They're beautiful things.

We strolled the streets for a while, then went to dinner at one of their favorite restaurants, the Rutherford Grill. I was taken by this statue outside: a pesky-looking raven perched atop a pig. Bruce took our picture. Dinner was fantastic: focaccia and olives, an impossibly good kale salad, and chilean sea bass, and a dessert - a take on the Oreo cookie with fudge sauce, ice cream, and whipped cream, which we all shared.

It's been a full day since we got here and already it's the best vacation I've ever taken. And I do miss Olive. It's a strange feeling to not have her with us, but I'm also pleased with how well she's doing with my parents, and how well they're doing with her. They really take care of her the same way we do, which is an enormous relief, and I know she's in the best hands with them. From what we've been told, she hasn't shown many signs of separation anxiety. She just asked my mom this morning if "Papa would be back soon." Dear girl. The next six days will go by so quickly, and I'm so looking forward to seeing her again, but until then I'm going to savor my time here in this magical place.

Bruce and Romeo's house

The view from the top of "Robber's Ridge", where, if the stories are to be believed, bandits would sit to shoot at stagecoaches.

Vernal Equinox and a Day with Qanina!

Yesterday we were blessed not only with another summer-like day, but a visit from our dear friend, Katrina (Qanina). She's on spring break from grad school at Tufts University in Boston and her Pittsburgh family welcomed her home with open arms. Olive and I went to pick her up at her old house where she was staying, popped into Whole Foods for goodies for a picnic as well as ingredients for dinner later that evening. The three of us headed back to Highland Park and chose a quiet, secluded grassy expanse to spread our blanket, removed our shoes, applied sun screen (I'd spread olive oil all over my limbs earlier, which really did the trick; after countless hours spent outside I didn't get burned in the slightest), and happily chatted over a meal of blueberries, bread, and a couple of prepared salads that were wonderful - wheat berry Waldorf salad and a Mediterranean mix of kale, garbanzo beans, kalamata olives, and cherry tomatoes. Olive reveled in the chance to run barefoot through the dewy grass. She needed a nap so we went back to our house to let her rest while Kat and I sat on the front steps, enjoying the flowers. Shauna, our friend and former housemate of Kat's, also joined us for a while, then I got a call saying I didn't need to come to work that afternoon - splendid! Later in the evening I baked a couple of apple pies and popped a bunch of popcorn to take over to their house for dinner. A nice crowd showed up, as usual, making it feel very much like last summer where we'd regularly gather on the back patio around the picnic table, many mouths to be fed, neighbors wandering in to join in the meal. Olive delightedly played with the flock of rabbits that live there, then took her seat next to her beloved Qanina. She served as our entertainment for the evening, singing many variations of the Alphabet Song and other favorites, looking surprised when others also knew the words, but not once turning shy the way she sometimes does. She clearly felt at home with the group. All in all a perfect day!

Buggy and Shauna communing in the rabbit enclosure

Cornelius and Rob discussing animal pens

Waiting for the food!

Buggy with Shackleton, the house rabbit

Things that Are Important (to me, at least)

A friend of mine in Maine, Shelby, just posted this on her blog. It's a very helpful reminder to live mindfully and gently, and it really resonated with me as we also like to make an effort to reduce our consumerism. Last week I brought in three pairs of shoes - two pairs of boots and a pair of flimsy and very inexpensive but still loved flats - to a local shoe repair shop to be resoled. Ordinarily I would've taken the little leather skimmers off to the East End Community Thrift, my most-loved thrift store, and gotten myself another pair of $20 slip-ons. The cost of resoling them was more than the cost of the shoes, which may have once made me decide to forgo the repair, but why not just fix them? Certainly cost is a factor for me, but even more important is the idea of extending the life of something I already own. The repair cost nearly twice what all the shoes cost together, but that's okay, because I'll be able to wear them for a whole lot longer now! Plus, who wants to go through the drudgery of shopping for new kicks, anyway? Oh yeah - most women - with only a few exceptions, including yours truly. So this was a real win-win for me, you see?

Another cause that is at the top of my list: second-hand smoke and children. This week it was announced that Maryland, my dear home state, made the wise decision to join the ranks of states banning smoking in a car with children (under eight. If it were up to me - well, I won't say what would happen if it were up to me). Well done. But what really rankles me about this is the backlash from all of the folks (presumably smokers) who are irate because "their rights are being taken away." What - the right to harm your child? Do they realize what they're saying? No one is telling them that they can't smoke in the privacy of their own automobile, just not in a small, confined space where their child/children are harnessed into a car seat and can't seek cleaner air. Oh, the injustice. I guess these are the folks who are battling their guilty consciences because they know, deep down, that the government is going to great lengths to keep kids safer when these children's parents don't care enough. I know government bashing is all the rage these days, but sometimes they do get it right.

Three Whole Years with Rob

Three years seems like both a long stretch and barely any time at all. Rob and I have crammed a lot into our three years together; shoot - I've known some people who are or were still in the casual dating phase after only 1,095 days. Sometimes that's not enough time to know for certain. Fortunately for us it didn't take nearly that long. I realize that many people scoffed at the breakneck speed at which our relationship progressed, and I'll be the first to say that our head-first style is not for everyone, but it's worked beautifully for us. Our life together has gotten better each year, and continues to flourish as we carve out the path we want for ourselves. I could not be doing the things I do now without him, and probably the same is true for him. I celebrate today, March 13th, and remember the day in 2009 when I finally stopped making my life more difficult than it needed to be, when I allowed myself to be truly happy with the person I was supposed to be with. And I remember that it was effortless; Rob wanted this as badly as I did. We were happy then, but we could never have known how much happier we'd be years later. It was so fortunate that we linked up when we did, though, because both our years in Maine were drawing to a close for both of us. Rob could no longer afford to stay in an area where no jobs were available to him, and I couldn't continue to work a job that made me so dismally unhappy (not so much the kids that I taught but the hostile and harsh environment in which I was so obviously an outsider that would never be allowed in). We made the decision to stay one more year, which was made so much easier by being together, then embarked on the most wonderful journey in family, career changes, and true fulfillment. He is the ideal companion for all things.