I woke up this morning thinking about Sicily. I miss the first house we lived in with the fig, olive, and lemon trees. The figs should be ripe now. There were two olive trees and my dog would constantly chew up then spit out the olives that fell to the ground. They tasted terrible and I don’t know why he kept trying, but he kept it up.
My landlord taught me how to cure the green olives by cracking them with a hammer and submerging them in salted water for weeks. My cutting board is still stained in one spot from cracking olives that afternoon six years ago. He also taught me to pick the ripe and nearly-ripe olives and cure them by layering olives with salt in a basket and letting them sit for a few weeks until they were shriveled and pungent and delicious. I didn’t speak much Italian, he spoke no English, but we figured it out. Continue reading →