Olive harvest has been and gone for another year. On the day prior to Anzac Day, with the help of kind family volunteers we picked around 200kg of the mixed olive varieties that grow around our woolshed, sheep yards and house.
Each year we have thoughts about gatherings friends to pick olives and later sharing a feast by our fire. In reality, once again at the last minute we grabbed a spare day that coordinated with our local olive press and jumped straight into it. A fellow local olive grower describes olive picking as character building, and he is right.
We rose early on the morning of Anzac Day and attended our local Dawn Service, leaving our ute loaded with olives parked in the dark, solemn street. I am not sure how many other people travel to Anzac Day commemorations with their olives but that is the way we seem to roll.
Terry spent the rest of Anzac Day at the press and by that evening we were testing some very fresh, golden oil on chunks of sourdough.
The sediment is slowly settling and we have at least twelve months supply in storage. When we planted our olive trees, oil seemed like a distance, dreamy vision. Now, we have not bought oil for several years. I still find it rather amazing.
Wishing you a happy weekend my friends.
What are you up to?