Page 56 of In Italy for Love

The Agriturismo Azienda Agricola Biologica Due Pini was not a place that aimed for exclusive quality. This was Friuli after all, where bitterness was honoured, hard work was prized and there were cold winds and scars of history and self-deprecating jokes. Friulian and epicurean were two words that rarely went together.

‘I suppose not,’ Jules admitted. ‘But why is the finest oil so important to you then?’

‘The taste is an expression of the land. Young oil is unique. I would almost say it’s a different substance to oil that has been bottled one month or more ago. Because of that, it is only in autumn, only in the countryside that you find this taste. If I could preserve it, I would be rich – that’s for certain. But sometimes the best things in life no money can buy – like oil straight from the mill.’

Jules was speechless as she studied her hard-working host. The simple wisdom of Maddalena’s words touched her deeply. The tasting was offered not out of a sense of superiority – as Luca’s mother had tried to educate her palate – but as a gesture of gratefulness and pride in the land, land she had worked too.

‘Here, you need to taste,’ Maddalena said with an approving smile, fetching two small glasses from a shelf.

Hanging over the vat was a steel tube, dribbling thick, green liquid. It was slightly cloudy and looked nothing like the product on the supermarket shelves.

‘You can taste oil like wine, with the nose and eyes first, but our oil is special enough that you can just sip it and you’llunderstand.’ She held the squat, bulbous glasses briefly under the flow of oil and handed one to Jules.

‘Will I turn into some kind of superhero if I drink this?’ she joked, but she did rather have the impression that being here had already done her good – even when she tried to take Alex out of the equation.

‘Or a zombie,’ Alex called out with a wink.

She gave him a dry look. ‘I could be even more help on the farm with superhuman strength.’

‘You’ve been super as a human anyway. Now taste the fruits of our hard work,’ Maddalena said, giving her a nudge.

‘All right, all right!’

Maddalena observed her intently and Jules felt Alex’s gaze on her as well, where he’d paused his work to watch. What did they expect to happen? She wasn’t the biggest fan of olive oil, even – or especially – after spending two days with the things falling on her head. She only hoped she didn’t gag after sipping the stuff neat.

She lifted the glass to her lips. As soon as the scent touched her nose, the zesty scent of tomato plants and grass with a nutty, bitter tang, she had the first inkling of what Maddalena had been talking about. She took a big sip.

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Jules coughed and spluttered and her hand flew to her chest as peppery spice hit the back of her throat. ‘Phew! Holy hell!’ she muttered, peering into the glass. The smooth, elastic texture of the oil lingered in her mouth with an aftertaste that was almost like… sour apples?

Alex appeared at her side to give her a hearty thump on her back, his deep laughter ringing in her ears.

‘Hey! Careful! I’ll spill it!’ She brandished her glass at him, still licking her lips as the fruity finish and the spice mixed on her tongue. Peering at the innocuous-looking liquid, she marvelled that Maddalena had not been exaggerating. The fresh oil was like nothing she’d ever tasted.

‘Well?’ her host prompted.

Before she answered, she took another sip. Prepared for the flames and the bitterness this time, she picked up the intensely savoury flavour on the front of her tongue – as comforting as a fire in the kitchen stove.

‘I could almost drink this.’ She eyed Maddalena and Alex. ‘But you could have warned me about the spice.’

‘I think we did,’ Alex pointed out.

‘It packs a punch,’ she said emphatically.

‘But you have a taste for it,’ Maddalena pointed out.

Taking another sip, letting the kick of spice warm her from the inside, she had to agree. ‘It appears I do.’

That evening as the sun set behind the hills terraced with vineyards, the tired, dusty group of olive pickers brushed the leaves out of their hair and gathered in front of the farmhouse to grill steak and fish and drink the dry white Friulano wine that the locals still called tocai.

Jules and Alex had brought a metal flask of fresh oil back from the mill that afternoon, which was drizzled liberally on bread toasted on the grill.

‘To your first harvest,’ Alex said, tapping his tumbler of wine against hers as they perched on the wooden rails of a broken fence.

She sipped the wine, watching the distant horizon flare with colour, as pink as the farmhouse. ‘My first? How many more will there be?’

He followed her gaze, his smile slipping. ‘The wrong words, I suppose. For me, it’s something to look forward to every year, a ritual. Something that keeps you going when you’re not sure how.’

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