On our way back to Cape Town after a weekend at the Breede River, Russell and I pulled over at a picturesque olive farm. As we strolled toward the farm shop, Russell stopped by a heavily laden tree, reached out, and plucked a plump, dark olive.
He popped it into his mouth and began to chew with a look of pure, Mediterranean relish. "Ooh," he hummed, nodding with approval, "the olives here are absolutely delicious. You have to try one."
I didn't hesitate. I reached for the nearest branch, picked a beautiful-looking specimen, and bit down hard.
The taste was instantaneous and catastrophic. It wasn't just "bitter"—it was a violent, astringent assault on my taste buds that felt like chewing on a piece of toxic chalk soaked in battery acid. I didn't just spit it out; I launched it. The half-masticated olive flew a good five metres across the grove in a projectile arc of pure regret.
Russell immediately erupted in giggles. He leaned forward, opened his mouth, and revealed his own olive—completely untouched and tucked safely under his tongue.
"Ha ha! Got you!" he crowed, finally letting the prop fall to the grass.
I stood there with a mouth that felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper, watching him double over with laughter. I’ve since learned that olives must be cured in brine or lye for months before they are remotely edible; unfortunately, I learned it the Russell way.
