I sniffed the juice of the can of olives. I plucked out an olive. I ate the olive. I thought of Thanksgiving. I remembered being a child at Thanksgiving (except for the Thanksgiving when I had stomach flu and had to (even though I was self-proclaimed recovered) eat tuna salad and crackers for my meal instead of the traditional fare).
Based on the strength of my association between Thanksgiving and the taste of black olives, I am going to assume that we did not have olives often in my family outside of major holiday meals.
At said meals, we always had a relish tray on which olives (both green and black) held a prominent and indispensable (in my mind) place. Many a time was I in charge of assembling the relish tray (Pillsbury crescent roll can-popping, unrolling and baking being one of my other main responsibilities).
Many a time I opened the can of black olives, popped a few in my mouth and then proceeded to put one on every finger of my hand and then eat them off of my fingers one by one. I thought this was grand fun. I was happy to know (even though I couldn't there) that my sister took over the role of eccentric aunt and presented this exercise to my not-yet-one-year-old niece last Thanksgiving. I am told that she too enjoyed it.
It is something of which all of God's children should partake. And so. I am happy to share: my new revelation for the week (small though it is): the taste of olives pulls my mind in the direction of the Pilgrim holiday.
No comments:
Post a Comment