Carol’s Column

107 black olives growing on a tree I planted myself

Trevor Manuel, our effective minister of things financial believes that we should become self sufficient. In accordance with his wishes, I started growing my own fruit and vegetables. My garden is just a little larger than a postage stamp, but that doesn't matter: For more years than I can remember, Pauline Raphaely - sadly she died last year – taught people they could grow enough vegetables to support their families with a garden the size of a kitchen door.

Today our country is filled with kitchen-door gardeners who, thanks to Pauline and her colleagues, eat regularly.

Bearing this in mind, I planned my small garden with care. Splashing out, I bought an olive tree because I liked the idea of planting something which would live for hundreds of years after I'd disintegrated into bonemeal - the olive trees flanking the Gardens of Gethsemene in Israel have been there for over 2000 years, a statement of permanency.

So, I purchased this little olive tree and positioned it strategically to catch whatever sun was beaming around.

Unlike most other things in the garden, the olive tree has flourished and is full of fruit. Whereas my carrots are skinny, the cucumbers square and shrivelled and the cabbages flat and yellow, the olive tree has 107 olives upon it. Which, for a first timer, is quite a competitive number, I think.

When they first appeared, they were surprisingly olive green in colour. Then they turned brown and this weekend they plumped and blackened. So I rolled up my sleeves and, pushing aside my husband's newly washed socks and underpants, harvested them into the laundry basket.

I cannot tell you the pleasure I am deriving from these 107 olives. The satisfaction of knowing that something I planted has grown and developed into a fruit from which I shall make virgin cold-pressed olive oil and succulent black garlic-flavoured olives to crunch.

"Aren't you a little ambitious?" said my husband when I proudly displayed the fruits of my labour. "You're not going to get much olive oil from 107 olives and you certainly won't have any left over to eat." He's always been negative.

There are actually only 106 olives - I ate one. Five days later and my mouth feels as if I've been chewing on barbed wire and my cheeks are still sucked inwards. When my good friend Betty saw me she said I looked as if I needed a face lift: "Even your nose is wrinkled."

To tell the truth, I had no idea that fresh olives were so sour. You might think it easy to find out how to prepare fresh olives. I hunted for days. Oh, sure, all the recipe books are filled with olives, but these are prepared, edible olives – the kind you buy for an astronomical amount in your friendly supermarket.

Eventually, at the reference library, I researched the olive, learnt of its worthy history (it was around in the days of the Pharaohs in Egypt) and after much reading, found a section on preparing olives.

The secret is to take fresh, newly plucked olives and place them in lye. This was confusing as I thought a lye was an ancient U-shaped stringed instrument used for accompanying soulful singers.

And then, an industrial chemist I know well, explained that lye is a salt solution.

So, I took my 106 plump black olives and placed them in a bowl then covered them with salt water. They have to pickle for a while. Betty, who tells me she's an olive expert, said either two weeks or two years, she couldn't remember.

Meanwhile, I'm looking for a new fruit or vegetable. Something that will reach full growth in a week and be immediately edible. Something that will make me self sufficient.

"I have the perfect vegetable for you," said Betty early this morning. "Tell me," I gasped. "Frozen peas," she said.

Is a frozen pea classifiable as an instrument of self sufficiency?

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