olive oil. I read something in one of my homesteading blogs that I receive that the mob is in on an olive oil scam!! Can you believe that?! Apparently they can make shiddy extra virgin olive oil and make bank on it and its obviously less risky than any of the other shit they have their hands in. crazy.
I’d rather be writing about something else actually. Something like ‘silence’. ‘Darkness’. Or anything to express my feelings and thoughts about what bothers me in life or what’s on my mind right now. Well, you don’t always get what you want, that’s what life has tought me so far. You might think I’m a pessimist but why would I be here then? If life gives you olives, write about them.
Olives have always been a bit repulsive to me until recently. I guess that slimy little red piece tucked inside its chubby olive colored sphere has been a bit of a turn off. However, I am good with colors so I can be good with olives, too.
“You don’t like olives?” Graves stared in disbelief. “That’s weird.”
“No it’s not.” Christophe frowned.
“It is. Hate to break it to you.”
They glared at each other until Dru elbowed her way between them. “Are you guys seriously arguing about omelettes? Never mind. I just want coffee.”
Her olive green eyes gleaned gold under the summer sun. She walked across the sand, ready to sink into the cool waves, and the light danced upon the water, ready to welcome her in.
A peculiar fruit, the olive. Sold, packaged, pickled, stuffed, gutted, processed, plucked from the tree, pollinated, flowered, risen from earth. It’s grown from itself; an olive.
The olive looked enticing, floating in the sea of the martini. She looked over the edge of the glass as she took a sip, to see her friends and all the other people in the bar and felt that she had made it. When she first arrived on campus, she had felt insecure and lonely and didn’t imagine how she would ever fit in with this crowd of beautiful people.
His olive green pants were the biggest turn-on for her. Sometimes in the morning when she woke up, she’d see him wearing just that and his bare chiseled chest gleaning in sweat while he exercised.
My skin is Olive coloured. For the first part of my life, I hated my olive skin. I looked yellow in the winter, and no matter how much I tanned in the summer, I always had a yellowish undertone. I am just now learning to love my skin colour. It’s all about wearing the right colours to match it: like berry pinks, and deep, army greens
Her skin was olive. Her hair was golden. She belived in silky-limbed nymphs and chased butterflies in the garden, chattering excitedly. She was a singer. An actress. A writer. She was all things to all people. But she was nothing to me. I never met her, but I hear her voice in my head. She’s the sister I’m named after. The other. Gone. And now I remain, just me. My skin is milk-bottle white, my beliefs are flat and stale. I don’t dance or sing or twirl or twist. I’m just the replacement that started going stale from the day I was born when the nurse swung me upside-down in front of my mother.
Everything about me is upside-down. Mirrored. Wrong.
olives are great fruit that i hold as truth to the mediterrean roots. i see the olive and hear the others who bother to wonder why mother and brother saw me cry and saw me ever so shy. why olive, have you grown to glow while me non olive has nothing to show?
Olive oil spurted through her fingers. Goddamn it! She dropped the pot and it hit the stove, splashing hot water up and across her bare neck. Now she hopped back in real pain, and made me feel awful, really, for sneaking up behind her and saying “boo!”
Olive Oil.. Rounds the soil. I hear the beats of the olive branches. Taking humanity. O for ominous. L for love. I for inigenous. V for venerable. E for Ever. It’s a toil that the oil is not worth the branch.
Olives. A simple food. A dyslexic romance. Something we all strive for or it could be something we avoid. There are those that seek it out, those that tolerate it, and those that avoid it at all costs. But really, this is just food for thought.
Olive was a lovely girl. Tanned skin kissed by the sun from hours spent outdoors. Walking through the orange groves, hours sailing on her boat. Her life was complete. Nothing more to ask the Gods above for than more time to enjoy this beautiful life she had created.
Emrys had a habit of eating entire jars of olives at once. She would sit at the counter in Ryou’s kitchen with a jar of olives in her hand, spinning on the stool and glowing like a star.
“We don’t have these where I’m from,” she would say when asked how she hadn’t gotten sick of them yet. No one knew where Emrys was from, exactly. Whenever asked, she would just gaze at them eerily until they were forced to look away.
Round. Smooth. You could stick it up your nose. You could stick them in your ears on a plane. You could eat them. Don’t do it after the nose/ears incident.
Some people believe Olive oil is the best cooking oil to use. I agree that it is one of the best, but it is not THE best oil. Let me tell you why. Olive oil doesn’t do well in high heat. It starts to go rancid. Since I don’t know what high heat means, I prefer to avoid it, unless I am using it in hummus. The best oil for high flame/heat is coconut oil. Sunflower oil does well too! In my opinion Olive oil should be used with extreme caution and low low heat/flame.
Her olive skin shone in the moonlight as she shimmied her jeans off. Her bathing suit was adorable. I was so jealous of her perfect body. I quietly slipped off my t-shirt and crossed my arms over my chest.
Olive was our housekeeper. She lived with us and as a child, she taught me to knit. She had the largest bedroom in our 5 bedroom 1 bathroom house. Did I love her? I don’t think so. She had a volatile temperament. One day she would be kind and fun, letting me ride on the big heavy polisher when she waxed the floors. Another day, she chased me out of the kitchen brandishing a butcher knife. Strange times.
The olives kept stacking up as the martinis came coming. I never tried an olive because they always seem so unappetizing. Maybe what you don’t try doesn’t kill you
olive oil. I read something in one of my homesteading blogs that I receive that the mob is in on an olive oil scam!! Can you believe that?! Apparently they can make shiddy extra virgin olive oil and make bank on it and its obviously less risky than any of the other shit they have their hands in. crazy.
Her deep bronze skin tone nearly blended with the trunk of the tree. Her legs hung over the precipice toward the blue water. She spit out a pit.
I’d rather be writing about something else actually. Something like ‘silence’. ‘Darkness’. Or anything to express my feelings and thoughts about what bothers me in life or what’s on my mind right now. Well, you don’t always get what you want, that’s what life has tought me so far. You might think I’m a pessimist but why would I be here then? If life gives you olives, write about them.
This is a neme of the fruit.
wich this is is possible do de oil extra virgem.
olives are good and tasty.
I say, “Olive” you say “Oh live!” The boy across the street than shouted “Ole!”
I say, “Olive” you say “Oh live!”
Olives have always been a bit repulsive to me until recently. I guess that slimy little red piece tucked inside its chubby olive colored sphere has been a bit of a turn off. However, I am good with colors so I can be good with olives, too.
“You don’t like olives?” Graves stared in disbelief. “That’s weird.”
“No it’s not.” Christophe frowned.
“It is. Hate to break it to you.”
They glared at each other until Dru elbowed her way between them. “Are you guys seriously arguing about omelettes? Never mind. I just want coffee.”
Her olive green eyes gleaned gold under the summer sun. She walked across the sand, ready to sink into the cool waves, and the light danced upon the water, ready to welcome her in.
A peculiar fruit, the olive. Sold, packaged, pickled, stuffed, gutted, processed, plucked from the tree, pollinated, flowered, risen from earth. It’s grown from itself; an olive.
“Olive!” my mother called from the other room.
A stupid name that I never liked. She might as well have called me Potato or Leek.
The olive looked enticing, floating in the sea of the martini. She looked over the edge of the glass as she took a sip, to see her friends and all the other people in the bar and felt that she had made it. When she first arrived on campus, she had felt insecure and lonely and didn’t imagine how she would ever fit in with this crowd of beautiful people.
My gaze wondered over to her olive complexion which made me look down on my skin.
“Jacklyn, do you want pepperoni or sasuage pizza?” My friend asked me, breaking me out of my thoughts.
A small glass jar on the second shelf of that eight-year-old fridge.
His olive green pants were the biggest turn-on for her. Sometimes in the morning when she woke up, she’d see him wearing just that and his bare chiseled chest gleaning in sweat while he exercised.
Olive. They taste very good, but I enjoy the green ones the most…
Olive tree produces olive berries and olive oil is extracted from the berry.
My skin is Olive coloured. For the first part of my life, I hated my olive skin. I looked yellow in the winter, and no matter how much I tanned in the summer, I always had a yellowish undertone. I am just now learning to love my skin colour. It’s all about wearing the right colours to match it: like berry pinks, and deep, army greens
There is an olive tree in my back yard, I got it for my birthday.
Her skin was olive. Her hair was golden. She belived in silky-limbed nymphs and chased butterflies in the garden, chattering excitedly. She was a singer. An actress. A writer. She was all things to all people. But she was nothing to me. I never met her, but I hear her voice in my head. She’s the sister I’m named after. The other. Gone. And now I remain, just me. My skin is milk-bottle white, my beliefs are flat and stale. I don’t dance or sing or twirl or twist. I’m just the replacement that started going stale from the day I was born when the nurse swung me upside-down in front of my mother.
Everything about me is upside-down. Mirrored. Wrong.
That’s why I’ve decided to run away…
olives are great fruit that i hold as truth to the mediterrean roots. i see the olive and hear the others who bother to wonder why mother and brother saw me cry and saw me ever so shy. why olive, have you grown to glow while me non olive has nothing to show?
olives are black like my soul.
olives that appear green, are actually just black olives in disguise.
A black eye, a food that you can play with. Irony in taste, like that of blood.
The olive is a food that has many wonders, like its ability to become an oil, and it ability to accent almost any dish.
Olive oil spurted through her fingers. Goddamn it! She dropped the pot and it hit the stove, splashing hot water up and across her bare neck. Now she hopped back in real pain, and made me feel awful, really, for sneaking up behind her and saying “boo!”
Olives are the fruit of Athena the Greek god of wisdom. Her bird is the owl which is probably why everybody thinks he is so wise.
taut and tan
the island glow
of foreign bodies
haunt and hate
the dowdy imperfections
i carry like luggage
always traveling
never vacationing
Olive Oil.. Rounds the soil. I hear the beats of the olive branches. Taking humanity. O for ominous. L for love. I for inigenous. V for venerable. E for Ever. It’s a toil that the oil is not worth the branch.
Olives. A simple food. A dyslexic romance. Something we all strive for or it could be something we avoid. There are those that seek it out, those that tolerate it, and those that avoid it at all costs. But really, this is just food for thought.
“Yes, hi,” I said into the phone. “I’d like two large pepperoni pizzas with extra cheese and white cream sauce…”
“Can I get black olives on my pizza?” Laura piped up.
“Yeah, sure, babe,” I said with a smile before returning to the receiver. “And black olives on one of them.”
“You’re marvelous,” Laura said once I finished the call, pecking me on the lips before she returned to her blood-and-gore video game.
I don’t like very much Olive, i use sometimes it in pizza, because it is used like a tempers food.
Olive was a lovely girl. Tanned skin kissed by the sun from hours spent outdoors. Walking through the orange groves, hours sailing on her boat. Her life was complete. Nothing more to ask the Gods above for than more time to enjoy this beautiful life she had created.
Emrys had a habit of eating entire jars of olives at once. She would sit at the counter in Ryou’s kitchen with a jar of olives in her hand, spinning on the stool and glowing like a star.
“We don’t have these where I’m from,” she would say when asked how she hadn’t gotten sick of them yet. No one knew where Emrys was from, exactly. Whenever asked, she would just gaze at them eerily until they were forced to look away.
Round. Smooth. You could stick it up your nose. You could stick them in your ears on a plane. You could eat them. Don’t do it after the nose/ears incident.
Olive.
I love
olive s.
Some people believe Olive oil is the best cooking oil to use. I agree that it is one of the best, but it is not THE best oil. Let me tell you why. Olive oil doesn’t do well in high heat. It starts to go rancid. Since I don’t know what high heat means, I prefer to avoid it, unless I am using it in hummus. The best oil for high flame/heat is coconut oil. Sunflower oil does well too! In my opinion Olive oil should be used with extreme caution and low low heat/flame.
Her olive skin shone in the moonlight as she shimmied her jeans off. Her bathing suit was adorable. I was so jealous of her perfect body. I quietly slipped off my t-shirt and crossed my arms over my chest.
Olive was our housekeeper. She lived with us and as a child, she taught me to knit. She had the largest bedroom in our 5 bedroom 1 bathroom house. Did I love her? I don’t think so. She had a volatile temperament. One day she would be kind and fun, letting me ride on the big heavy polisher when she waxed the floors. Another day, she chased me out of the kitchen brandishing a butcher knife. Strange times.
The olives kept stacking up as the martinis came coming. I never tried an olive because they always seem so unappetizing. Maybe what you don’t try doesn’t kill you