The first cold press of the year

Before dawn, the mill smells of cut grass and stone. The olives came in last night, picked through the afternoon and carried down while the air was still warm.

The first press of the season is the one we wait all year for. It runs slower than any other. Nobody talks much. We watch the first ribbon of oil find its way out of the stone, green as the grove it came from, and we taste it standing up, on bread, with nothing else.

That first taste decides everything: when we harvest the rest, how long we let the fruit rest, what the year will be called around the table. This year it was bright, a little fierce, with that pepper at the back of the throat that means the grove is healthy.

The bottles from this press never travel far. Most stay in the family. Some reach the people who have been with us longest. If one reaches you, you will know.