Ode to Olives — and a marinated olives recipe from Posadas (Cordova)

Hello, I hope this finds you all in good health and spirits.

A few blogs ago I put up photos of the olives I had picked and was scoring them before putting them in water to remove the bitterness so later I could pickle them.

Olive picking is underway, even on these young alberquina olive trees from my son’s finca
And here are some ‘manzanilla’ olives from our finca, as yet uncut because I just picked them today

Well, a couple of weeks have passed since scoring the first set of olives, and after having changed the water daily they are less bitter (or ‘sweeter’ as they would say in Spanish), so today was the pickling day. And here is what I did:

The olives in soak produce murky, oily water…
…so I drained and rinsed them.
I prepared my marinating ingredients which were (this time) fennel, oregano, thyme, garlic, a little chilli, bitter orange rind, bay leaf, salt and vinegar.
I sterilised my jars by putting them in boiling water…
…but I cracked one by adding water to it before letting it cool sufficiently!
After filling the jars with the ingredients and adding the olives, I placed them back into the semi-boiling water for about 10 minutes to produce a vacuum so they would be tightly sealed.
I did place a cloth on the base of the saucepan so that the glass wouldn’t crack (again!)
And here’s the final result! I will wait a good couple of weeks before opening a jar, so that they have sufficient time to marinate. For my next set of marinated olives I will be varying the ingredients, probably making some spicy with cumin and paprika …

And to finish, I’d like to include a beautiful poem by Pablo Nerudo (1904-1973, Chile, poet and politician:

Ode to Olive Oil

Near the murmuring
In the grain fields, of the waves
Of wind in the oat-stalks,

The olive tree

With its silver-covered mass
Severe in its lines
In its twisted
Heart in the earth:
The graceful
Olives
Polished
By the hands
Which made
The dove
And the oceanic
Snail:
Green,
Innumerable,
Immaculate
Nipples
Of nature
And there
In
The dry
Olive groves
Where
So alone
The sky, blue with cicadas
And the hard earth
Exist, 
There
The prodigy
The perfect
Capsules
Of the olives
Filling
With their constellations, the foliage: 
Then later,
The bowls,
The miracle,
The olive oil.

I love
The homelands of olive oil, 
The olive groves
Of Chacabuco, in Chile, 
In the morning
Feathers of platinum
Forests of them
Against the wrinkled
Mountain ranges.
In Anacapri, up above,
Over the light of the Italian sea
Is the despair of olive trees, 
And on the map of Europe, 
Spain
A black basketful of olives 
Dusted off by orange blossoms
As if by a sea breeze.

Olive oil,
The internal supreme

Condition for the cooking pot, 
Pedestal for game birds, 
Heavenly key to mayonnaise, 
Smooth and tasty
Over lettuce
And supernatural in the hell
Of king mackerels like archbishops.
Olive oil, in our voice, in
Our chorus

With
Intimate
Powerful smoothness
You sing:
You are the Spanish language; 
There are syllables of olive oil
There are words
Useful and rich-smelling
Like your fragrant material. 
It’s not only wine that sings
Olive oil sings too, 
It lives in us with its ripe light
And among the good things of the earth
I set apart
Olive oil,
Your ever-flowing peace, your green essence, 
Your heaped-up treasure 
Which descends
In streams from the olive tree.

A golden end to an olivey day!

Thank you for reading, I hope you have enjoyed this blog. As usual, comments and questions always welcome.

Take care! xxx

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