Thursday, November 23, 2006
Olive Less Ordinary
Today was Thanksgiving, a day when, as a child, I would spend all morning and afternoon babysitting for my brother and the usual gaggle of cousins, and after hearing one of our mom's bleating our names at dinnertime, we would emerge bleary-eyed from the darkness of the basement where the Nintendo had been lobotomizing us all afternoon. We would wander into the dining room, complete with a "kids' table" which I was always relegated to despite the empty chair at the adults' table, to view the cornucopia aspread before us. Every single dish was full to the brim save one: the one that had, an hour earlier, contained the black olives. I remember with poignant nostalgia how my pre-pubescent fingers would slide into the pitless black olive as easily as Bode Miller into an Italian barista, and all ten of my tiny fingertips would be capped. Within 5 seconds of hearing my mother yell, "you'd better stay away from those olives," they'd be down my gullet in lightening speed in order to avoid getting caught. I wish had never taken for granted having those tiny fingertips, because now, putting an olive onto my fingertip is a fruitless act that ends only in disappointment. I still have my pinkies, though.