A short story called "Promise".
May. 17th, 2009 07:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jolantruThe olives hang, a rich purple and green, in the midst of peridot leaves. They look almost ripe for picking, plump beneath the fingers, promise of liquid amber. It is the same throughout the entire grove. Purple, green and golden.
Harvest will come soon, the ovoid fruits hand-picked. Machines spoil the taste of the oil. Like wine, it will be made into three basic grades, with varying levels of robustness and oomph. Tasting the quality of the oil is like wine tasting: your tongue is the litmus paper. Good olive oil is fresh, with a hint of spice and sun. It is memory, transporting you straight to days of summer and verdant trees; crisp salads drizzled with intense flavors and awesome, breathtaking sunsets by the beach.
Promise of a good crop and excellent oil. A tradition I will keep going. It is tradition. It is culture. The olive trees have taken root just as I have, with my entire family. At first, the critics laughed at me at my decision to start an olive tree farm and make olive oil. Hey, Wong, you are not Greek, they mocked and made bets when I would fail and leave the business alone. Worse, I am a woman and they thought I would turn tail the moment there was a hint of trouble in the air.
I did not. I have not. I will not. With my farm, I remain. This place is new, like myself, like my family and the rest of the families settling here. A tabula rasa. There are many challenges. Attitudes are one of them.
I laugh, brushing my hands against the bark, against the leaves. Touch brings me closer to the trees. Indeed, I feel as if I am one of them. Hard, resilient, rooted to the earth.
There is hope, in the olives. There is hope in my family who work just as hard on the farm, keeping it green and thriving. Already the name of our own olive oil – Clarita – is becoming well known for its authenticity.
Chuckling, I head indoors, letting the olive trees soak in the sunlight and grow strong with Tertullian V soil.
And a short story titled Leaving For Nanyang: HERE. Written in honor of my paternal great grandmother and grandmother, inspired by something told to me by my grandmother. Immigration. Leaving home. Chinese diaspora. And Hui An, Fujian, where both my grandfather and grandmother came from.
Harvest will come soon, the ovoid fruits hand-picked. Machines spoil the taste of the oil. Like wine, it will be made into three basic grades, with varying levels of robustness and oomph. Tasting the quality of the oil is like wine tasting: your tongue is the litmus paper. Good olive oil is fresh, with a hint of spice and sun. It is memory, transporting you straight to days of summer and verdant trees; crisp salads drizzled with intense flavors and awesome, breathtaking sunsets by the beach.
Promise of a good crop and excellent oil. A tradition I will keep going. It is tradition. It is culture. The olive trees have taken root just as I have, with my entire family. At first, the critics laughed at me at my decision to start an olive tree farm and make olive oil. Hey, Wong, you are not Greek, they mocked and made bets when I would fail and leave the business alone. Worse, I am a woman and they thought I would turn tail the moment there was a hint of trouble in the air.
I did not. I have not. I will not. With my farm, I remain. This place is new, like myself, like my family and the rest of the families settling here. A tabula rasa. There are many challenges. Attitudes are one of them.
I laugh, brushing my hands against the bark, against the leaves. Touch brings me closer to the trees. Indeed, I feel as if I am one of them. Hard, resilient, rooted to the earth.
There is hope, in the olives. There is hope in my family who work just as hard on the farm, keeping it green and thriving. Already the name of our own olive oil – Clarita – is becoming well known for its authenticity.
Chuckling, I head indoors, letting the olive trees soak in the sunlight and grow strong with Tertullian V soil.
And a short story titled Leaving For Nanyang: HERE. Written in honor of my paternal great grandmother and grandmother, inspired by something told to me by my grandmother. Immigration. Leaving home. Chinese diaspora. And Hui An, Fujian, where both my grandfather and grandmother came from.
