You know, it all started with the olives. When we first found the land, so many years ago, it was the olives, the olives that cast their spell. And so we bought it, our olive grove. Our very own olive grove.
But we were bad olive tree parents, and we made mistakes. There was that horrible time when we killed some of the olive trees, stupidly, so stupidly. I wept bitterly. I planted a green memorial to try to make amends. But the truth was that we we weren't olive farmers. We didn't knew what to do,. How to care for the olive trees. How to ensure they would, well, live.
Oh, we did our research, of course. And we hoed, and bought manure, and put in drips (twice, because we got it all wrong at first). But we lived in fear that they would come for us --- Olive Tree Welfare Services. Because the thing we knew best was simply how to love the trees.
And maybe it was love that was most important. Because our olive trees have lived. They have thrived, even. And there are the olives that magically appear each year.
It's been picking season at Peacock Pavilions. We hire the same all women olive picking team each year.
And they hand pick tons (as in literally, tons) of olives.
(Did you know that olives are believed by some in Morocco to have magical powers? Some Berber women eat them when they are pregnant because they believe that it will help their babies become beautiful.)
Our own gardeners take a break from regular duties to help out
While the fruit trees stand by patiently.
And in the end, we have the sweet memory of it all. A sweet memory trapped in a bottle, like a liquid gold genie.