As autumn whispers in our day and night, the olives are ripe somewhere. And it predicts my mouth and turns it into water. Oil-hardened olives are waiting for you. My olive investigative adventure began this cold January. I was presented with a small fresh crop of ripe black olives from Rachel Prince, a talented professional gardener and friend of two blocks west of Brooklyn. Rachel grows her small olive tree in a pot wintering indoors in USDA growth zone 7b (-ish). I always find the meaty concentrated flavors to be addictive for those who love flavourful flavors. The results after a few weeks were surprisingly tasty and the process wouldn’t have been easy.
All you need to do is salt, olives and time to make oil-cured olives. And maybe the pillow slip.
When I read How to Make Oil-Cured Olives (starting with this fun tutorial), I quickly learned that the term “oil-cured” is a misnomer. The oil is not involved in the curing process. It is more accurate to describe these magical treats as dry or salt-hardened. However, the explanation seems to be stuck.
Rachel’s little cold olives didn’t get much bitter or bitter than most, but I still soak them overnight, then mix them with equal weight of sea salt before hanging from the ceiling to a cloth (just near the annual constellations). Snow fell on the skylight above. A week later I tasted it. It’s still a bit bitter. But in just a week, the little olives were ready. I was happy to discover that they tasted the oil-hardened olives, at least for me, like they should.
A few months later, in April and a distance from the hemisphere, I found myself outside of Niewoudville, South Africa, and adored next to three 12-foot olive trees with silver-leaf branches overwhelmed by plump green and black fruits. They were planted around our accommodation. The 200-year-old farm was a hub for a lifetime trip and our base for viewing the annual breathtaking autumn display of Brunsvisia flowers in the town of Beld. The pomegranate tree grew next to the olives, with ripe fruit exposing a juicy red gem. Bloom’s rosemary climbed up the stone wall. In a nutshell, it’s heaven.
I remembered these dying oil-hardened olives in Brooklyn in winter and I began to choose.
Oil-cured olives remind us of two formative diets. For one, as an impressive 20 year old waiting for my waiter friend to finish his shift at a Turkish restaurant in Cape Town, I found myself a surprised recipient of two plates sent to me from the kitchen by an intimidating chef. On the small plate was a slab of unadorned sheep milk feta. The second plate contained only shiny, oil-cured olives. I had never seen it before. A petite carafe of red wine has arrived. It looked surprisingly strict and I never forgot about it (the chef has become a friend and food mentor. Now 85, he lives in Istanbul).
Another indelible memory comes from Café Gitane, an insatiable restaurant in Norita, Manhattan. There, a decade after that light evening snack, I had an amazing salad of orange segments, oil-cured olives and chili for lunch. A chunk of baguette was served. The purpose was to suck in the complex flavors and soup juice at the bottom of the bowl. Since then, I have recently made that salad from our small terrace with a shutter and some mint. Adding cured olives to your home will give you an even more satisfying joy.
Those plump Nieudbil olives traveled. First we head back to our Cape Town base where we hang from a slippery pillow from an iron cafe table on the small terrace where we were staying. After that, we will return to New York using ziplock bags, salt, etc. At home, in Brooklyn, they switched to cotton kitchen cloths and hanged for another week until no more moisture was detected. On the 29th day of their treatment, I realized they had a great taste, and I rinsed them, dried them, and bottled them – a moment! I ate a few moments before writing these words and they are as delicious as ever. Bold, succulents, slightly chewy, and as persuasive as Umamu.
