114 x10% = 11

I had been worrying about turning the olives to oil. The mills - it’s a frantoio in Italian - often will only take batches above two quintals - which confusingly is 200kgs. And when I asked around locally some said they might need 7.5 quintals. We slept anxiously and on Monday morning I commenced the milling quest. A local guy who grows everything was out digging up their trees for the Christmas markets . I stopped and asked him for a ‘consiglio’ ( advice). He said to ring the mill at Stroppielo but sucked his teeth when I told him( fool that am) that the olives were already picked. He wondered if I’d get an appointment.

Anyway, I just drove to the mill 40 minutes away through the most glorious late autumn sunshine. I missed the turning at first and then pulling into the lot the proprietress gave me a long hard appraising.

But I persisted, slipping off my shades and humbly scuffing across the gravel to the office amidst the huge noise of the mill gnashing up olives and pips and all.

I persisted outside the office as some interminable transaction that seemed to involve special pleading progressed. And progressed.

Then I was the centre of attention: no problem to mill my lot. I carted the olives in - they weigh more with an audience of mill fish watching under a surprisingly strong sun. On the scales they bounced up to 123kgs minus 9 kgs for the six plastic boxes. We stacked them, me and the previously glowering woman who was charm itself, twisting and turning the boxes so they stood atop the stacking ledges and didn’t squash the much-laboured over fruit.

I got a little receipt - ‘Murray 114 kg’ and drive home leaving the precious cargo in the hands of the millers.