Page 21 of I Think Olive You

“We’ll walk some of the property today so I can give you a feel for things and explain more about the cultivars we use.” Professional Giuliana is back.

Good. Makes it easier to screw her over when it’s business and not personal.

Still, I can’t help but think back to our first meeting and consider all the ways I’d like to unravel her careful exterior to peer back at the woman who knocked me on my ass. It’s going to be a long three months.

The grove stretches further than I expected. From the stone courtyard, I can see expanses of trees like soft waves cresting against the horizon. Giuliana stands beside me, gesticulating as she speaks, explaining the breadth of the operation.

“The grove isn’t quite small enough to constitute a ‘family farm’ but we don’t produce the volume to compete with larger, well-known groves in the area. What has set us apart so far is the particular cultivar my great-great-grandfather introduced to the area. They changed it again in between but my father brought it back and it has grown for over thirty years. It was considered a very old-fashioned move, but so far, it’s paid off.”

My stomach jumps, questioning whether my own father had any hand in that decision. What did Tommaso think about taking a risk here? Was he a silent partner or did he walk the same paths, stare over the same treetops as I do now?

Giuliana walks me through some of the rows, pointing out how to tell if a tree is young or old. She touches on the basic timeline but promises to go into more detail when we start our hands-on experience. All the while I think about what she said at the courtyard.

“Why old-fashioned?” I ask, surrounded by trees that, by all accounts, are comparatively young, if I’m understanding her correctly.

Giuliana’s gaze moves over to the side, set away from the rows of trees. Off to the left of the big house I see an older stone structure, the one I saw on my drive in, and behind it trees that are larger than some of the ones closest to us.

“I’ll show you.”

The walk to the old farmhouse is quiet, broken up by the snapping of twigs and the crush of small rocks under our shoes. Birdsong breaks up the silence, serene and unusual to me. It’s a far cry from blaring horns and the shuffle of feet against asphalt I’m used to. Heat sets my temples to sweating and I wipe my brow with the back of my hand once we traverse a slight incline. The view of the grove from this vantage point is just as stunning, only the trees here were planted in a more haphazard way.

Instead of a neat row, they take up space of their own. Trunks and branches twist and stretch in the openness they’ve been afforded. The fruit is visible, if a little small. But what strikes me is how old the trees look, in particular one near the crest of the hillock.

“My great-great-grandfather planted these trees. They had a bad harvest one year. A prolonged cold followed by too much rain left it unsalvageable. A lean year followed, one which made him consider some of the older varieties he’d grown up eating. Even though they were less favorable for high quality olive oil, it was worth a shot. They weren’t as easy—if harvested at the wrong time they were far too bitter. But he figured he couldn’t be any worse off than he was to begin with. The cultivar everyone lauded had failed him.”

She must see some confusion on my face because she answers my question before I can ask it. I absorb her every word—every little sigh of information she’s tucked between the dusty corners of her life.

“A cultivar is a variety of plants, in this case olives, that have been bred to be a certain way. Sometimes they’re hybrids created by crossbreeding, sometimes by accident. But it impacts things like taste, texture, and how long it takes to ripen.”

Walking up to the large tree, Giuliana raises her hand to stroke one of the sage-colored leaves. Her thumb trails over the curve of one of the developing olives. I don’t dare speak, can’t interrupt her when faced with a history I long for. My grandparents were strangers to me. I never even knew the names of their parents, let alone great-greats. Time and separation have erased them, and I’m left with a jealousy sitting sour in my stomach. Generations of her family have worked this land. What do I have to show for mine?

“They had a modest harvest, and my great-grandfather kept this strain—cared for it, and his son after him. By the time my grandfather took over, it carried him through for a few years. Not profitable enough, so after a while, it became something purely enjoyed by my family. My grandfather improved his methods and the original cultivar took precedence. Until my father...”

Giuliana isn’t looking at me—she’s barely looking at anything at all. Her eyes are lost, faraway in a memory I can’t touch.

“What was his name?” It’s a stupid question, one I already know the answer to, but I want to call her back to this moment. It’s selfish. But what else can be expected from an asshole like me?

“Lorenzo,” she says, soft, the word cradled in hurt.

I want to ask more—want to delve into the story of a man I didn’t know but who has handed me a chance at something new. But I don’t want to push, not so soon.

Giuliana gathers herself, clearing her throat before she carries on.

“By the time my father took over, the cultivar they’d been using was massively popular, the market overrun. He had two options: sacrifice prestige in order to sell a mass market product. It would have meant keeping the operation as it was but geared toward making more oil of a lower standard. Or he could start small, with the certainty of a loss for the first few years, and introduce a different cultivar—new trees to the grove.”

There’s no need for her to fill in the gaps. I can guess what comes next. Lorenzo opted for the latter, securing his success with the support of a backer. The perfect lines of younger trees cement the story.

“I assume he went small, aiming for something to set him apart?”

Giuliana confirms it, opens her mouth as if she means to say more, but shakes her head.

“He remembered the lesson from my great-great-grandfather. Although it’s a different cultivar than these old trees it has a similar taste profile, and would fare well. My father was a very stubborn man but, in this instance, it paid off. At least then. That was thirty years ago, and the trade is different now.” Giuliana sighs.

She has to innovate in her own way, to keep up with the world at large.

“And are you going to put your mark on the grove, the same way your father and great–great-grandfather did?”

Giuliana looks at me with incredulity, scoffing. “The grove put its mark on me. I’m just here to be its caretaker. Who am I to spit in the face of tradition?” The words are bitter, as if she’s thought about this a lot and is dissatisfied with how it panned out in her mind.

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