Marie Antoinette and friends
A little photo essay of last weekend’s diversions, in which a stalwart group of Italians, Lady V and a small dachshund undertook the very serious business of gathering ze olives.
The day begins at 8am, with the Man Of The House and I assembling a hearty lasagne to fortify the workers at lunchtime. I pop a couple of loaves in the oven. Put on loud music to wake everyone up. The mood segues from Country Vicarage to Disco Inferno.
10am. Only two of said workers seem to be alive. We push on through, beginning with the first tree. Eschewing Marcella’s instructions to store said olives in garish plastic containers, we decided to go rustic and use wicker baskets. If you’re going to do it, you do it right. And we’re living in Milan. It’s all about the look.
11.30 am. Still only four of us. We push on through, Guido still managing to look butch whilst holding his girly basket.
The M.O.T.H. follows his lead...
11.45am. MOTH goes all Wolfie on us and rouses other workers. They stumble out into the olive grove.
12.00. Swigga Jackson arrives, poised to pick. She and I go to ‘check the loaves’ pausing only to mix a refreshing tray of G&Ts.
12.30pm. Stumble back to groves, grinning inanely and feeling fortified for the job in hand. Jackson immediately climbs tree in true BL tomboy fashion.
1.30pm. Break for lunch. Splash of wine. Or two.
2.30pm. Work like Karen Blixen’s sweaty coffee pickers until the sun goes down, panicking lightly as we get to the last trees but refusing to lower our standards. The men are still looking, er, manly.
5.30pm. MOTH and workers dash off to the frantoio with olives, leaving Lady V, Maude and Swigga with a bottle of white wine and a bucket of chestnuts to fashion into a hearty soup.
7.30pm. MOTH and workers return to almost assembled soup and cheery BLs.
9.00. All collapse around table with various beverages and soup. Proceed to slurp like Sicilian truckers.
.............................
Next day, workers are taken to train station. Swigga and Lady V recline on sofa to watch French film in the original, fortified by vod, gin and pieces of cheese. Congratulate ourselves on extensive grasp of French language and letch lightly over a young Emmanuelle Beart and Daniel Auteil.
MOTH returns to bosom of rapturous BLs. Sit around table and plot next steps. Raucous laughter ensues. Evening peaks with a truly terrible teen crud starring Lindsay Lohan, during which Swigga sneaks off to bed (early morning drive to Rome looming). MOTH forces a quick episode of Dexter on Lady V, ensuring that she creeps to bed slightly traumatised and imagining murderous rapists lurking on the stairs.
Next day we gather the fruits of our labours. 23 litres of the FINEST olive oil, a light and gorgeous green in hue, with golden highlights. We bottle it, feeling rather pleased with ourselves.
The day begins at 8am, with the Man Of The House and I assembling a hearty lasagne to fortify the workers at lunchtime. I pop a couple of loaves in the oven. Put on loud music to wake everyone up. The mood segues from Country Vicarage to Disco Inferno.10am. Only two of said workers seem to be alive. We push on through, beginning with the first tree. Eschewing Marcella’s instructions to store said olives in garish plastic containers, we decided to go rustic and use wicker baskets. If you’re going to do it, you do it right. And we’re living in Milan. It’s all about the look.
11.30 am. Still only four of us. We push on through, Guido still managing to look butch whilst holding his girly basket.The M.O.T.H. follows his lead...
11.45am. MOTH goes all Wolfie on us and rouses other workers. They stumble out into the olive grove.
12.00. Swigga Jackson arrives, poised to pick. She and I go to ‘check the loaves’ pausing only to mix a refreshing tray of G&Ts.
12.30pm. Stumble back to groves, grinning inanely and feeling fortified for the job in hand. Jackson immediately climbs tree in true BL tomboy fashion.
1.30pm. Break for lunch. Splash of wine. Or two.
2.30pm. Work like Karen Blixen’s sweaty coffee pickers until the sun goes down, panicking lightly as we get to the last trees but refusing to lower our standards. The men are still looking, er, manly.
5.30pm. MOTH and workers dash off to the frantoio with olives, leaving Lady V, Maude and Swigga with a bottle of white wine and a bucket of chestnuts to fashion into a hearty soup.
7.30pm. MOTH and workers return to almost assembled soup and cheery BLs.
9.00. All collapse around table with various beverages and soup. Proceed to slurp like Sicilian truckers.
.............................
Next day, workers are taken to train station. Swigga and Lady V recline on sofa to watch French film in the original, fortified by vod, gin and pieces of cheese. Congratulate ourselves on extensive grasp of French language and letch lightly over a young Emmanuelle Beart and Daniel Auteil.
MOTH returns to bosom of rapturous BLs. Sit around table and plot next steps. Raucous laughter ensues. Evening peaks with a truly terrible teen crud starring Lindsay Lohan, during which Swigga sneaks off to bed (early morning drive to Rome looming). MOTH forces a quick episode of Dexter on Lady V, ensuring that she creeps to bed slightly traumatised and imagining murderous rapists lurking on the stairs.
Next day we gather the fruits of our labours. 23 litres of the FINEST olive oil, a light and gorgeous green in hue, with golden highlights. We bottle it, feeling rather pleased with ourselves.
posted by Lady V at 11:33 pm
4 Comments:
Which prestigious retail outlets have agreed to stock it? I need to get in my order before the Christmas rush.
Now Dexter: so, so glad that, at last, I can agree with albeo on a critical judgement. Deliciously creepy. From the opening titles onwards (whoever imagined that preparing breakfast could be made to look sinister?).
I think this calls for a bit of scripture:
“Thou shalt sow, but thou shalt not reap; thou shalt tread the olives, but thou shalt not anoint thee with oil; and sweet wine, but shalt not drink wine.”
I would like one of those bottles, please, and a gin.
that might be arranged...
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