Chapter 11
T he tires rumble down a driveway of hard-packed earth, bookended by a smattering of buildings. The bulk of the operation functions out of the biggest building and we unbuckle and exit as soon as the wheels have stopped turning.
As we walk up to the building—half stone, half industrial metal—it strikes me how old this mill is. The date on the plaque by the door starts with “17” and it’s mind blowing something like this has been in one family for so long. Giuliana greets Arturo with cheek kisses, the old man’s face folding into soft lines—testament to a lifetime of worries and joy.
I trail them as they catch up in Italian. Arturo looks back to examine me a few times before he launches into his speech and Giuliana translates as we pass at different parts of the mill.
“Arturo uses the cold-pressed method which produces what you call ‘virgin olive oil.’ The juice is extracted without using heat or chemicals in order to keep the purity of the product and retain more flavor.”
Stacked crates line one wall, and a long square arm reaches up from the ground to the top of a large bowl. We’re surrounded by stone walls, concrete floors, and at the center of it all is heavy machinery. Through it all the air smells like earth and salt. It’s too early in the season for the mill to be operating, but I can imagine the groan of machinery and the din of voices filling the space.
“Because we are so close, our olives are delivered and pressed within a day of the harvest, another requirement for the ‘extra virgin’ label. Olives are carried up this conveyor belt. Leaves and other debris gathered up during the harvest process are discarded. Once most of it has been separated it goes into the actual mill.”
She points at the arm—a little ridged bottom there to push the fruit along, and slats for the leaves to fall through.
“The extraction is done the traditional way. The fruit is ground into paste between these huge granite millstone wheels to press and crush the olives. A scraper moves along the bottom to keep it moving between the wheels of the press.” I look up at said wheels peeking out from the top of the giant bowl and I’m struck with a child-like wonder at getting to see how all of this comes about.
Arturo leads us further along the equipment which runs connected from start to finish.
“Once the paste is as smooth as the press can get it, it moves into a kneading machine to separate it out and break the paste into water and oil for the first time.”
My arm brushes against Giuliana’s as we follow the pipes and something inside me clenches. This room is more factory-like, the modern sneaking in.
“It gets piped onto fiber disks, stacked in layers and piled up, slowly compressed through a hydraulic press over hours until the oil leaks out over the sides and collects into tubs at the bottom. It’ll be separated again into unfiltered olive oil, and water.”
I’m trying. I’m really trying to pay attention to the actual words she’s saying. But her words blur in my mind and I can’t stop thinking how badly I’d like to taste them on her tongue.
“The unfiltered oil is an opaque murky green, and it gets stored in these giant stainless-steel tanks until it’s ready to be packaged and sent out.”
I’m not sure why the stainless steel is surprising to me, perhaps because I thought olive oil and wine might have similar processes. I expected wooden barrels stacked underground.
“Abundantia also sells both kinds of oil to cover different spots in the market. Filtered loses some of the taste but it has a much longer shelf life. Unfiltered is the preferred and superior product. Arturo does the filtering through a funnel with cotton wool, dredging the impurities until it looks like the stuff you’d find at the grocery store.”
So clinical but she makes it so interesting. I’d never considered the process before—how much work must have gone into a single product.
“Arturo still has a few bottles of last year’s harvest. You want to taste the fruits of our labor?” Pride leaks into the words and her expression is open—hopeful. I’d do anything to put a smile on her face. Even if it means baiting her. Even though I’d be breaking my promise.
“Sure thing, sunshine.” I can’t even get it out without a shit-eating grin and she rolls her eyes.
“I’ve made my nickname preferences clear, Matteo.”
“Ah, but it could be we just haven’t found the right one. Is it the English you don’t like? Maybe you can teach me a few Italian ones.”
I’m rewarded with a scoff and another one of those skin-tingling brushes and she moves around me to exit through the door. Once outside, we walk side-by-side toward a farmhouse, Arturo leading the way. The years cover his body like a thick blanket, back bowed under the weight. How long has he been doing this?
Finally, Giuliana addresses my comment, the air between us supercharged.
“I will do no such thing. Behave, please. I’m trying to teach you the business. You know what’s at stake. It’s important I get it right.”
She’s losing steam and I can’t keep my hand from brushing against hers, hoping the touch of our fingers might inject some kind of strength or comfort into her. Her pinky twitches against mine and she doesn’t pull away.
“You know I can multitask.”
We reach our destination and the conversation drops as Arturo explains the layout, Giuliana’s mouth closing around unuttered words. Arturo’s table is set up with little cups of oil. Some are murkier than others and there’s crusty bread set up on little plates beside each one.
I’ve been to a wine tasting before; this feels familiar.
“We use recioppella as our main cultivar, which is more popular in Calabria but grows well in our region as well. It’s an old variety with spicy, bitter notes. When harvested at the right time it has undertones of fresh herbs like basil, sage, and mint.”
Shuttered expression back, Giuliana is on task again.
“For curiosity’s sake, what happens if they’re not harvested at the right time?”
“The flavor profile is off. Too soon and it’ll be very acidic, too late and the bitterness overwhelms the other tastes.
“You can see the difference between filtered and unfiltered in each variety. The first set is recioppella—our commercial oil from the most populous trees of the grove. The other set is from the small private grove I told you about—peranzana. That one is fruitier, with a fresh and spicy taste.”
Swirling the liquid in the cup, I watch it kiss the side of the glass and leave its film.
“Go ahead, you can take a small sip and then drizzle some of it onto the bread.”
Giuliana’s wide eyes are trained on me as I let the cold oil slide over my tongue. It lights up inside my mouth, smooth and so much more flavorful than I ever expected. The filtered kind is similar, if a little diminished.
Following behind me, Giuliana tastes from the same glass my lips have just touched and I simmer inside. If I kissed her right now, I know exactly what it would taste like. In my distraction I spill some of the oil onto my hand instead of the slice of bread. Shit, gotta focus.
Arturo’s watching me, those friendly lines drawn into a look of concentration. Jesus. What is it with this older generation and the staring? Between him and Isabella I’m developing a complex.
Giuliana stops the flow with a napkin before it meanders over my wrist, the heat of her hand scalding through the cloth. Once sufficiently cleaned of oil, I savor the soaked bread, and relish the slight bite at the end.
“It reminds me of artichokes for some reason.” I say and Giuliana translates.
Arturo and Giuliana smile, his response sounds pleased though how the fuck would I know when it’s in Italian?
“He says you have a good palate and wants to know if you have family in the area. You look familiar to him. I assured him you’ve never been here before, it’s just his old eyes.”
They laugh and I join in but it’s hollow. Worry creeps up my ribs like a vine. How could I look familiar to him? Do I remind him of someone else or has my father been here before?
Tasting over, Giuliana and Arturo discuss the specifics of the upcoming harvest as we walk back to the little car. It’s silent save for their low conversation in Italian. Our feet crunch on the path, birds flitting around and chirping to each other. The trees dance and swish around us from the wind, soothing my nerves enough for me to remember our interrupted conversation. I wait until we’re on the way back to the grove before broaching the subject again.
“How bad is it? This volunteer thing can’t be more than a temporary stopgap.”
Giuliana takes a deep breath, launching into it like she needs to get it out all in one go.
“We’re in the red. Those last few years with my dad hurt us and I can’t keep running it the way he did before. The bank’s given me a lump sum—almost all of it went to Umberto—and the umbrella payment…” A breath sticks in her ribs, shuddering out and I understand the pressure she’s under with more clarity.
“If I don’t come up with something soon, I’m not sure I’ll be able to claw my way out of it. I’ve been doing some research on other farms and how they’ve had to pivot when the product alone wasn’t enough.”
Shifting in my seat to look at her, my stomach drops at her grave expression. Although the words should fill me with joy—this is the kind of stuff Alan wants me to collect, to report on—I feel worried for her sake.
“The volunteer program seemed like a temporary way to hit two birds with one stone. Workers are scarce and a program like this would drum up interest in Abundantia . Once we gain traction, I can turn Abundantia into a working-vacation destination for tourists. You’ve seen the old farmhouse. If I could somehow refurbish it into a bed and breakfast, I’d have people paying to stay on the farm—and occasionally helping to lighten the workload.”
She lays it out with little excitement and I force myself to keep my hands in my lap—to not reach out and squeeze the top of her knee for reassurance.
“I think it sounds like a great idea! You should do it.”
“Matteo, I don’t know if you’ve realized it yet or not, but I have no idea what I’m doing. The night we met I was so desperate to forget all the responsibility waiting for me at home I picked up a total stranger. Do you realize how risky and out of character that was for me?”
Now that she mentions it, taking someone you just met to a secluded spot under a bridge is dodgy as fuck.
“Everyone is counting on me and I don’t even know where to start.” Giuliana's voice catches and it breaks me. Knowing the woman I met is still there but she’s drowning under trying to take care of her family, her workers, and her legacy—it’s a punch to the gut.
“You said there are other farms doing the same thing. Why not go check it out and see how they’re doing it?”
Flicking away an errant tear, she turns to me again as she considers it.
“At worst it will be an excuse to take a little break from the grove. At best it will give you a way to make Abundantia your own. What do you say, sweetheart?”
“I say I’ll do it if you stop with the stupid nicknames.”
Tension broken, we chuckle and some of the stress melts from her shoulders. A few minutes later we turn off the main road onto the familiar path toward home.
I suck my teeth in mock regret, shaking my head. “No can do. We did things on your terms last time, now it’s my turn.”