Olea Europaea. No. It is not a spelling mistake. It is the fancy name for olives – those little green, sometimes black, baubles that grow on what could either be a small tree or a shrub. When in shrub form, it is known as Olea Europaea Montra (that is a dwarf olive, or a little olive), and are related to species such as Lilac, Jasmin and the true Ash Tree. You could have fooled me. I believe there is fossil evidence that the olive tree had its origins as far back as 20 to 40 million years ago. Only in the past 100 000 years, did Africa discover olives. But then, I guess Africa was always a little slow on the uptake. When the rest of the world already had plans for Autobahns, we were yet to discover the wheel. Fire took a little longer. Now we just need to find a way to stop elephants from roaming the streets. I was going to say: stop tigers from roaming the streets, but then, that is a bit of a real problem at the moment, so best I do not jest about it. I’ll stick to elephants.

But, back to olives. For a very long time, olives were grown for their oil to be used in lamps. Only much later would olives be grown for their culinary purpose. Today, Olives are one of the most extensively cultivated fruit crops in the world. No longer limited to the Mediterranean, olives can now be found just about anywhere in the world. There are more olive trees in the world than apples, bananas, and mangoes. Apparently, they are only outnumbered by coconut trees. I never would have guessed.

One of the first things that most people do when they first migrate to the Cape, is to try their hands at pickling olives. I think it is a bit like a rite of passage. Your first winter in the Cape? Oooo! You must pickle your own olives. Here, try some of mine. I made them last winter, and then comes the whole long explanation of how the olives were harvested, washed, soak, washed and soaked, and washed and soaked again. You can tell how serious the storyteller is about the soaking process when you are passed nuggets of wisdom. Some soaked their olives in 20-liter buckets. Others used the bathtub, until the tub had a permanent brown ring stained into it. One even suggested keeping your olives in the cistern of the toilet. All you have to do is flush once a day and top up with salt. Just do not use the toilet for its intended purpose in that time. Finally, when the time is right, the olives get bottled before they are left to stand on a shelf in the garage for a few more months. How do you know when it is the right time to bottle them, I asked. There was no firm answer. One chap said the right time arrived around the same time his wife threatened mutiny over the bathtub. Another mumbled about a blocked loo. And another just got fed up with changing the water so often. How long do you leave them sitting on a shelf in your dark garage? Again, dubious answers. Such as: until you need the space for your new power tool. Or until you make space for your own wine production, which I think is the next rite of passage.  In the end, I did succumb and pickled some olives. I asked You Tube for a good method, which did not involve any of the afore mentioned methods. I must say, if you ignore the heavy hand I had when adding limes, it did not turn out half bad. I usually only offer them to guests after the second bottle of wine, when their senses (and tastebuds) are a little less discerning.

Olive oil was considered sacred and holy. An olive branch is a symbol of abundance, glory, and peace. The leafy branches were ritually offered to deities as emblems of benediction. Victors were crowned with olive halos in friendly games and bloody wars. An olive in some cultures symbolizes wisdom, fertility, power and purity. Olive oil was used to anoint kings. With so many uses, how then, did olives progress to a culinary delight? An olive straight from the tree is more rancid than a speeding fine while on holiday. What made some persons decide to take that little ball, and soak it for an eternity and then pickle it forever, only to eat it?  Who knows. Maybe a lawyer got involved. Or a night of too much wine bringing on the munchies.

A lot of leisure time in the Cape involves wine. A Saturday afternoon with not much to do? Let’s go to that nice little vineyard down the road and have a wine tasting. Friends visiting from far away? We’ll take them wine tasting. Tough day at work? How about a nice bottle of cold wine down by that place on the lagoon. The one where you can watch the sun set over the mountains? Two days before payday, and feeling a little broke? No problem, we still have that box of wine we bought on our road trip 6 months ago. Somehow, sipping it at home made the wine taste less smooth than what it did after a couple of rounds of tasting. But hey, two days before payday, and beggars can’t be choosers.

Colin had a birthday this week. What shall we do to make it special. Well, we could go wine tasting… or strawberry picking… or, wait for it: olive oil tasting! The idea was new to us, we did not know quite what to expect when four small glasses of oil got lined up in front of each one of us. I am not going to share too much detail. I would rather you discover it for yourself. But what I will tell you is what an experience it was. I learnt things about olives and oil that I never imagined I would want to learn. I learnt how to warm the oil, how to sniff the oil. How to sip, yes SIP, the oil. I learnt about using oil for purposes other than salad dressing. I learnt that not all oils are equal. I have promised myself that I will never buy cheap olive oil again. And the piece de la resistance? Lemon oil (not juice) infused olive oil over vanilla ice cream. I told you some time ago about my BF who makes the best ice cream in the world? My hints, pleas and harassment paid off one day, and he shared his recipe. Afterwards I was sworn to secrecy that I would not share (and I have not) on pain of death.

I can hardly wait for this coming weekend. I am planning to make a bowl of that delicious ice cream, which I plan to eat outside in the beautiful garden, pretending to be monarch of all I survey, whist probably watching that other monarch being crowned. And about the same time that his head will be anointed with oil, I will be pouring over my own anointing of lemon infused olive oil over my bowl of vanilla ice cream. And I will celebrate our shared, yet individual, rite of passage.