Taste and See
Page 10
Take a few moments in prayer to ask God to show you someone for whom you can ease 1/60 of their pain, beginning today. Most people are simply waiting for you to invite them into your life and give them the gift of your presence.
Write the name(s) God brought to mind on a piece of paper, along with how you’ll ease their pain. Invite the person for coffee, a walk, a delightful activity. Send an encouraging note. Pick up the phone. Mail a care package.
LEIF’S SMOKED SALT
Smoked salt is a great addition to everyday cooking and also makes delightful gifts.
PREP: 10 minutes COOK: 60 minutes COOL: 10 minutes
2 cups wood chips, soaked in cold water for 1 hour, then drained
1 cup coarse salt
DIRECTIONS
1.Pour salt into aluminum foil pan and spread into a thin layer.
2.Choose your favorite wood chips—mesquite, apple, maple, or whatever you have on hand. On a charcoal grill, add the wood chips to the coals. On a gas grill, either place them in a smoker box or wrap them in a tightly sealed tinfoil packet.
3.Create indirect heat on the grill. If you’re using a charcoal grill, place all the coals on one side and place the pan of salt on the cool side. If you’re using a gas grill, heat the surface to medium and place the pan on a grate away from direct heat.
4.Cover the grill and smoke the salt at approximately 350 degrees for one hour.
5.Remove salt from heat and allow to cool. Pour into a jar and cover. Enjoy or give away.
Yields 1 cup smoked salt.
KARY’S DARK CHOCOLATE SEA SALT COOKIES (GLUTEN-FREE)
This is my favorite new cookie recipe because you don’t need to apologize to anyone that these are gluten-free.
PREP: 10 minutes COOK: 15–20 minutes COOL: 10 minutes
3 cups powdered sugar
¾ cup unsweetened dark chocolate cocoa powder
¼ teaspoon fine salt
½ teaspoon salt flakes
4large egg whites at room temperature
2 teaspoons vanilla
parchment paper
Optional: 2½ cups walnuts and 1 cup peanut butter chips
DIRECTIONS
1.Preheat oven to 350. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.
2.In a large bowl, mix powdered sugar, cocoa powder, and fine salt. Add egg whites and vanilla and whisk together until most clumps disappear. If you over-whisk, the batter will stiffen. Spoon onto baking sheet in 20–24 different cookies. Sprinkle a few salt flakes on each cookie.
3.Bake cookies 15–18 minutes. Pull from oven when cookies become glossy, firm to the touch, and cracked on the surface.
4.Slide the parchment paper on two wire cooling racks. Use a spatula to loosen the cookies from the parchment paper shortly after they come out of the oven.
Makes 20–24 cookies.
Bonus: Leif prefers to add 2½ cups of walnut halves and 1 cup of peanut butter chips to the recipe. We’ll often bake our cookies side by side and when we share them, we’ll ask people to vote between Team Margaret and Team Leif to decide which is best. We’d love to know your vote! If you try both recipes, email us at hello@margaretfeinberg.com and let us know which you prefer.
CAROLYN’S OOEY-GOOEY SALTED CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES
These soft, chocolatey cookies will quickly become a favorite.
PREP: 20 minutes, plus 24–36 hours of refrigeration COOK: 20 minutes COOL: 10 minutes
2 cups minus 2 tablespoons cake flour
12/3 cups bread flour
1¼ teaspoons baking soda
1½ teaspoons baking powder
1½ teaspoons coarse salt
1¼ cups unsalted butter
1¼ cups light brown sugar, packed
1 cup plus two tablespoons granulated sugar
2 large eggs
2 teaspoons real vanilla extract
1¼ pounds chocolate chips (semi-sweet, dark, or whatever you prefer)
pinch of sea salt
Optional: pecans, dried cherries, ice cream
DIRECTIONS
1.Mix flours, baking soda, baking powder, and coarse salt into a bowl. Set aside.
2.In a mixer, cream butter and sugars together (about 5 minutes). Add eggs—mixing well after each addition. Stir in vanilla.
3.On low, add dry ingredients (5–10 seconds).
4.Drop in chocolate chips (and/or pecans and cherries).
5.Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 24–36 hours.
6.Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
7.Scoop 36 half golf-ball sized cookies onto the baking sheet. Sprinkle with sea salt.
8.Bake until golden brown but still soft (about 18–20 minutes).
9.Cool on wire rack for 10 minutes. Serve warm or with vanilla ice cream.
Makes 36 cookies.
6
A Bowl of Delectable Olives
TASTE AND SEE GOD’S HEALING
My body rotates around a tree until I pluck every last olive. Two hours and fifty-seven minutes have passed since I first tried my hand at this. I relish in how my skills are improving, but then I look to my seventy-five-year-old companion, Mama. She has cleared two and a half trees in the same span of time.
Leif and I have never visited Croatia before, but when Natalija (pronounced Nah-tall-yah), who is Mama’s daughter, extends an invitation to harvest olives, we travel to the island of Hvar. Underneath swooping brown bangs, Natalija’s round sapphire eyes sparkle with life. When I glimpse gray cartoon socks peeking beneath her pant hem, I know we’ll become fast friends.
We cram our overstuffed suitcases into a jellybean-sized car and drive into the village. Her bleach-white home perches on the side of a hill blossoming with fruit. A kiwi tree shades the lower entrance and grape vines snake along the stairs. Leaves of an orange tree brush our shoulders as we approach the front door. Leif notices me salivating and mutters that I shouldn’t get any bright ideas. We depart in a few days, and “fruit thief” doesn’t look great to customs agents.
Natalija gives us a tour of the house. On the bottom floor, she catches me eyeing a collection of empty plastic soda bottles and glass jam jars. Unlike commercial sellers who bottle and seal their products, her family sometimes gives their oil to friends to make homemade products. They store their liquid in large stone containers, and these plastic and glass vessels transport the smaller quantities.
The stockpile reminds me of the widow who pleads with Elisha. Unable to pay her debts, the creditors come to handcuff her sons and traffic them as slaves. The prophet asks what payment she can offer. Everything is gone, she reveals, except for one vial of olive oil. Elisha instructs the widow to request containers from anyone and everyone. The community rallies. Neighbors rummage for all the mugs and jugs they can find. The mismatched collection piles high.
The widow closes her front door. In the dimness, the sons watch as their mother empties the vial of oil into an oversized container. A gasp sweeps through the home as the oil flows in abundance. The widow reaches for a second vessel, and that one fills too. Jaws drop as the oil, which brings much gladness, gushes before their eyes. When all the containers fill to the brim, the supply runs dry. The miraculous abundance buys the sons’ freedom from slavery, breaks the cycle of poverty, heals the family, and leaves the community flabbergasted.
Natalija’s collection expands my appreciation for the jar-hoarding widow. Thousands of years later, people still gather jars from their communities to transport and sell oil.
We rise before the sun the next morning, expectant of all we will taste and see. Natalija explains that her family can’t afford to miss a day of harvesting. She and her mom harvest the trees; her dad stays home to clear leaves and stems. They must pick all their olives before the mill shuts down for the season.
After a breakfast of bread dipped in olive oil, we begin the hour drive toward the trees. The tangerine hues of the sunrise linger as the village disappears in the rearview window. Our tiny car sputters along hai
rpin turns as we ascend the island’s higher hills. The road turns to gravel and narrows. In a moment of weakness, I peer down the cliff inches from our car’s tires. I shut my eyes and focus on counting my breaths. Heights have never been my friend.
Leif nudges me that it’s safe to look. When I do, gnarled trees boasting gray silvery leaves flicker in the wind. Some appear so heavy with olives, their branches almost touch the ground. Others stretch lightly fruited stems skyward. Within each trunk are whorls of wood grain, which like clouds, resemble faces or familiar forms.
Natalija slows whenever we pass an elderly couple picking along the roadside. She shouts something friendly out the window, then skids by. In this agrarian community, everyone knows everyone. The car eases to a halt and Natalija announces our arrival. Unlike modern orchards, these trees were never planted in tidy rows. The crooked lines of trees expand outward in all directions like a tangled fishing net.
“This is one of our fields,” Natalija beams.
“Where do we start?” I ask, feeling overwhelmed.
She points to specific trees up the hillside: “That one, those two, and a few that way.”
“I thought you owned them all.” I fail to hide my relief.
“We’re not rich,” Natalija laughs. “The trees belong to different families. My great grandfather bought these long ago.”
We unload five-gallon buckets filled with folded tarps and hike the steep mountainside. The trees have been traded and bartered for centuries. Families have passed them down to their children and grandchildren, but with each generation the size of the parcel decreases. If a family owns a dozen trees, then the six children receive two each. The result is a complex patchwork quilt of properties, some consisting of only a single tree.
Centuries of harsh weather, wild vegetation, and neglect chew through the crumbling rock walls between the olive trees. The result is a land fractured into a maze of rocky separations. Studying the miles of labyrinth, I recall an ancient Proverb: “Don’t cheat your neighbor by moving the ancient boundary markers set up by previous generations.”
Natalija explains no one in this community would dare pick another person’s tree or claim another tree as their own. Such actions would wound relationships and fracture the community. The unmoved stones serve as living reminders of the importance of respecting, remembering, and honoring the past as well as ensuring the future.
As we approach the first tree, an aged, squatty woman descends a ladder. She wears an unbuttoned, tattered cardigan, and flashes a toothless smile. This is Natalija’s mother, who speaks only Croatian.
“Mama!” I shout as if I’m in a Greek wedding movie. She embraces us with breasty hugs.
Hunger and curiosity drive me to pluck an olive for tasting. I spew the bitter fragments from my tongue. Mama laughs. I learn the twisty-faced way not to eat olives fresh from a tree. They must be cured with salt, lye, or brine to become tasty.
Natalija explains that olives transition through a spectrum of colors as they ripen. The bright green ones resemble mini sour apples. The reddish ones look like cherries. The blackish ones, many of which dot the ground, contain the most oil.
I start picking, then hesitate. “Which olives should I pick first?”
“All of them,” Natalija assures.
About this time, Mama approaches me and mutters something incomprehensible.
She slides her hand up the branch as if she’s romancing the tree. With a swift gliding motion, her fingers descend. More than a dozen olives plop into her bucket. The approach protects the fruit and branch tips, both crucial for producing high-quality oil. Bruised olives yield higher acidity and less desirable oil; broken tips reduce new growth for next year. I emulate her gentle ways, but alas, the thin branch cracks and leaves fly in all directions. Three lonely olives plonk into my pail. Mama tosses me an encouraging wink.
I reach for a fallen leaf, rub its velvety texture, inhale its earthy scent. The leaf frames a mini-miracle, a microcosm of divine marvel. Olive leaves contain tiny hairs around their pores that shape themselves to accommodate changing seasons. These shape-shifting hairs enable the leaves to open flat in the moist season and curl inward during dry spells. This explains why the same olive tree boasts sea-green leaves one month and slate-gray the next.
Besides the rustle of branches, we labor mostly in silence. Donkeys whine faintly in the distance. A solo car hums past. The long hours provide time to reflect on the olive’s place in history. Many believe olive trees rank among the first domesticated plants. More than eight hundred million olive trees dot the surface of planet Earth today, and almost 90 percent are located in the Mediterranean region. Several countries in the Middle East still squabble over who owns the oldest living olive tree, but then again, squabbling is considered something of a sport there.
Olives enjoy a rich, lush history. The Egyptians used olive oil along with salt in their mummifying process. The Greeks created the original Olympic flame from burning olive branches, and the heads of champions were adorned with olive wreath crowns.
For Christians in a post-Roman world, olive oil provided a holy symbol. The faithful found their identity, their mark of belonging, in the olive. Monasteries used olives for sacraments, food, and lighting, which provided a way to honor martyrs who had been burned alive in oil for their faith.
The influence of the olive extends into philosophy, science, literature, and art. Aristotle told stories about olives, and Leonardo invented a more efficient olive press. Homer, Dante, even Shakespeare wrote about olives. Van Gogh painted eighteen images of olives while Renoir almost refused to paint them, noting that when light hits an olive tree it sparkles like diamonds, and the changing hues are “enough to drive you mad.”
The olive tree was one of the first Old World plants to be rooted in America. The agricultural skills of the Dominican, Jesuit, and Franciscan missionaries brought olives into South America, then Mexico, then Alta, California, in the late eighteenth century. Friars planted olive trees in San Diego in 1760 for oil to lubricate machinery, prepare wool to spin, make soap, cook, light, and of course, anoint. Olives gained widespread popularity in America after the emergence of the Mediterranean Diet in the 1950s. Today, television chefs have made olives and “EVOO” (Extra Virgin Olive Oil) a mainstay in countless kitchens.
Here on the island of Hvar, olives are a way of life. We work until mid-afternoon, when Natalija transforms the olive tarp into a picnic blanket under the tree’s shade. Mama unpacks a pouch of mandarin oranges, a cut of meat, a loaf of crusty bread, and a cylinder of black and green Oblica olives steeped in oil.
Natalija explains that while wine improves with age, oil does not. When first pressed, olive oil tastes sharp and peppery but mellows after two to three months. Store for more than a year and rancidity sets in. Some olive oils can last a few years, but they must be filtered for purity and stored in dark glass bottles that protect from light and heat. That’s why Natalija uses the blackish bottle with a tight seal for her personal stock.
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Table Discovery: Extra virgin olive oil is perfect for low-temperature cooking up to 320 degrees, and regular olive oil for medium heat up to 420 degrees. If you ever feel overwhelmed by which olive oil to choose, guidance awaits at 1–800-OLIVE-OIL.
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Much like sommeliers, Natalija explains, olive connoisseurs compare, contrast, and argue over their favorite types. Some prefer dark Greek Kalamatas for their snappiness; others, the Italian Castelvetranos, with their Kermit-green color and buttery flesh; still others, the French Nicoise for their assertiveness. The olive varietals are also enjoyed as oils. Some prefer the peppery taste of Tuscan oil or the fruity Luccas or the sharp bitters of the Chianti region.
Natalija says everyone on her island believes their oil is the best, and their bias is difficult to deny. Plopping an oily olive into my mouth, I attempt to describe the flavors that splash across my tongue in quick waves. “Sharp, almost astringent, with a nutty aftertaste.”
Leif uses words like “bitter,” “chewy,” and “almondy.” Natalija translates our descriptions to Mama who says, “Dobro, dobro,” meaning “Good, good.” We nod in hearty agreement and munch on more.
I later learn that the International Olive Oil Council has compiled a list of terms to describe the nuances of oil for foodies. Descriptions include aggressive, assertive, or pungent; bitter, delicate, or gentle; rustic, spicy, or sweet.
Perhaps it’s the hard work or perhaps it’s the pleasure of eating outdoors, but the simple meal satisfies. Food somehow always tastes better under these conditions. Fish always tastes better when you catch it, fruit when you pluck it, bread when you knead it, and salt when you grind it. The invested time and hard work make everything more delicious.
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Invested time and hard work make everything more delicious.
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We soon return to work: Massage the olives from the branch. Collect the fruit in buckets. Empty the tarp’s contents. Carry to the car. Repeat.
Mama uses an ax to trim the branches after we complete clearing a tree. Sometimes she takes short breaks to talk to Leif. And by talk, I mean she gestures with exaggerated motions and shouts with increasing volume. She seems convinced that if she speaks loud enough, Leif will magically understand Croatian. With mounting frustration, she stops abruptly and wraps her wrinkled body around Leif in a hug.
She’s been trying to express her gratitude. At a height of 6’8” and with extra-long arms, Leif can harvest branches Mama could never reach without climbing a ladder.
I become more comfortable picking with each passing hour. I climb to precarious limbs to reach the tallest branches. A hearty brush of cold wind knocks me off balance. I wrap my body around the trunk, then swing from a branch with glee. Mama guffaws, proof that silliness translates to any language.
HOW OLIVES BUD IN THE BIBLE