I visited Seville, Spain a couple years ago in early autumn. Despite it being October, the heat did not relent and the sun stayed posted in the sky. I remember sitting in the hotel courtyard just after arriving, seeking shade under a tree. Scattered on the white tiles were these little pebbles, hard and matte green: olives. I then looked up and realized how heavy the branches hung with this fruit. Every time I ate olives for the rest of the trip — part of tapas, alongside dinner, quick breakfast, with wine — I marveled at the work that it took to transform them, how something so tough and bitter in my hands became a salty, crisp bite or a floral, buttery oil.
