The olive tree. Its branches are a symbol of peace and goodwill. Its oil signifies prosperity and purity. Its wood is a symbol of vitality and life. Its fruit is. . . well, it’s simply delicious.
The olive tree was one of the first plants to be cultivated, growing best in climates that are mild in the winter time and hot in the summer.
The first olive trees were planted here in California by Franciscan monks in 1769 at the San Diego Mission. Since then, trees have been planted around the state, because California’s mild winter and hot summer climate is suitable for the olive tree.
There are over 1,000 growers – large and small – throughout California who continue the long tradition of the olive, and that is where we found ourselves on a recent Sunday . . . at Old Chatham Ranch, in the rugged hills of Mendocino County’s Yorkville Highlands appellation, where the soil and climate are ideally suited for olives.
Here, it is a mix of Italian varieties and California Mission trees, grown without pesticides. They are handpicked and pressed the next day to produce a blend of Italian and California flavors – fragrant green oil with a complex fresh and grassy flavor that lingers in the mouth with a peppery finish.
It wasn’t the first time I had picked olives – my first experience was 2 decades ago in Spain — an experience that I fondly conjure up from time to time, but one I had yet to recreate in any form. This time around my husband and four kids got to experience the fun, community, and first-hand experience with the olive tree.
After an early morning 2-hour drive, we were glad to get out and stretch our legs. While the kids ran around the ranch investigating the lake, teepees, and horses, Greg and I started the day with a bit of Grappa to warm us in the early morning chill. Soon, we were instructed to don our buckets and ready ourselves for the descent into the olive grove for picking.
Buckets ready, fingers warmed up, the opera began . . . we made our way to the trees and began picking. The sun was shining, and we worked together picking olives – Greg reaching the highest ones, Keely finding her way under the tree to grab those hanging within her reach (and where us older folks just didn’t want to kneel down to get).
As we moved from tree to tree, we chatted with others whom we didn’t know, and caught up with those friends we did. We dumped our buckets as soon as our shoulders began to ache, and began filling them again.
By noon, the picking was nearly complete, and we all headed back up to the house for refreshments, lunch, and a few prizes. We were exhausted, but filled with great memories of the day’s events. We didn’t want to leave, but our work was complete. The olives were to be taken to the press later that evening, and all that was left to do was to have a relaxing swing before heading back home.
