It is difficult to describe the sheer excitement we felt the moment the first trickle of golden-green olive oil emerged from the humming machine’s spout. We stood nervously for more than half an hour after feeding the funnel with about sixty pounds of freshly harvested olives. The crushing of the fruit seemed to last forever, and we were incredulously looking at each other and through the little square holes at the brownish slush, mashed and mixed for what seemed like an eternity. The pulp had to ‘appear very shiny and brimming with oil’ and only then could Costas turn the knob to transfer the ‘ripe’ paste into the next compartment that would, by centrifugal force, separate the pure, extra virgin olive oil from the dry solids — the crushed olive stones and the leftover skins.

The only one of our trees that still had greenish olives in December.

Harvesting the olives with a ‘comb’.

Costas prunes the trees after harvest.

Pruning and harvesting the last olives.

Olives on the matt.

Ela, Costas and Stathi carefully pick over the olives discarding leaves and rotten fruit.

The olive press is carefully unloaded.

The technician presses the first olives.

Costas feeds the olive press.

Tossing the olives as they slowly fall into the grinder.

Tossing the olives as they slowly fall into the grinder.

Looking at the pulb to decide if it is ready for the centrifugal.

Looking at the pulb to decide if it is ready for the centrifugal.

The first olive oil emerges.

Toasted bread drizzled with our first olive oil.

Shredded cabbage salad dressed with lemon and our first olive oil.

  Slide Show: Our First Olive Pressing

That was the theory, and it had worked perfectly the first time the technician demonstrated the machine’s capabilities. He came to Kea with our brand new olive press to make sure that we learned how to operate it properly, or a season’s harvest would be lost.The next day we proceeded by ourselves, without knowledgeable assistance, and we waited so long for these first drops of liquid gold that we forgot to prepare slices of toasted bread for immediate tasting, as is the custom. We did that later, when the first excitement subsided, and the doubts crept up on us. Had we turned the knob at the right moment? Was the olive oil as clear as it should be? The residue dry enough, and not wet with wasted oil? After performing the appropriate tests, we were finally confident that we had proceeded correctly. So we relaxed, or tried to, and Costas with Stathi, our neighbor and assistant, started to feed the machine and press the olives harvested the day before. (more…)

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«I buy a Greek extra virgin olive oil in bulk because bulk Italian olive oil is often not Italian and in some cases not even olive oil,» wrote acclaimed chef Sarah Jenkins, owner of the very popular Porchetta and the newPorcena restaurant in New York’s East Village. Her statement is critical in view of a bizarre new EU regulation that directly threatens unsuspecting consumers all over the world. Hard-working Greek and Mediterranean producers learned that “Brussels authorizes deodorised olive oils,” as an urgent Slow Food alert informed us.

“You do not protect quality by damaging honest extra-virgin olive oil producers, a category already facing a difficult situation. The presence of deodorised oils must at least be indicated on the label in order to guarantee the protection of the consumers’ right to information and health,” writes Carlo Petrini, Slow Food’s founder. (more…)

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My mother often came to spend the holidays with us in Kea. After all, on the island we usually enjoyed better weather than in her suburban home in Kifisia, north of Athens, the first place in the city’s outskirts to experience snow and frost. Once, she and my sister’s family were stranded here for five days, as the whole region around Athens was under snow, the airport closed, and only the main roads cleared, while we enjoyed marvelous winter sun!

No matter that for the past fifteen years I was officially the cooking expert of our family; my mother always came with heavy bags brimming with all sorts of seasonal food and sweets. She had spent days overseeing her companion and the lady who cleaned her house as they prepared, under her detailed instructions, melomakarona–the traditional orange, honey and spice cookies; a big pot filled with her stuffed cabbage dolmades; pastitzio, macaroni and meat casserole;  and, of course, her vassilopita, the new-year’s cake we all loved. (more…)

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To try the recipe for a SWEET, ORANGE-SCENTED CORNBREAD, click here, or click here for an ITALIAN CORNBREAD WITH CHEESE AND HOT PEPPERS.

For elderly Greeks, cornbread is an inferior staple. When asked, they will tell you about the dense and crumbly breads they consumed during World War II’s German occupation. Fighting the terrible famine of 1941 that claimed many lives in Athens, some families living in the outskirts of the city managed to cultivate some corn, and painstakingly ground the grains in hand coffee grinders to make hard yellow bread.

My father and my uncles—my mother’s brothers—invented and operated an ingenious contraption using an old bicycle. They took turns and laboriously pedaled to rotate the heavy millstones they had somehow managed to get. To this day older Athenians dismiss cornbread with contempt, much like as mother refused to taste my Italian-inspired pumpkin risotto because it brought to mind the weeks and months her whole family ate pumpkins from the garden—usually without even olive oil, let alone cheese. (more…)

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