One of my friends is leaving this damn city for a while, and I had the pleasure of eating dinner with her and her mother in their home over the weekend. There is no strangeness about that, we all just like food.
My friend, who by her eating habits and physic inspired the name of this blog, served up a through-Europe-we-go kind of a party. She's actually a proud mongrel of France and England. Many people who meet her say, " I thought those countries hated each other?"
She dryly replies, "Yeah, that's why my parents are no longer together."
Yes, I love this woman.
Just as much, I love her mother's taste in furniture, art and other strange collectibles. She can speak something close to a million-and-eight languages and owns an old school Russian coffee brewer the size of me, and has vintage, wooden train seats inside her house. Her fruit basket has labels of "feet" and "goat" in French with changeable prices.
Yes, I also love this woman.
I also find it phenomenal how the gap in technology is closing in. Mother and daughter often communicate to each other through MSN. I think if my mother did that, I would just cry.
Needless to say, this is all actually leading up to something and I am not just mindlessly telling you of relationships between families.
So, the French mother, in wonderful French mother styles presents us with olives before the meal. My taste buds kind of popped, and then I realised I had probably eaten the equivalent of half a jar.
Never fear, apparently she has another few kilos of them.
I ask her if she did them herself to warrant so much. It is in season, after all.
"No," she says. "I was attracted to this via the internet. I saw a company named Nicolas and I liked it because it means corner store in French. Then I saw the shape of the olive oil bottles and bought a whole lot of their things. Here, have a jar."
They are crammed full of bay leaves, lemons, garlic, oregano and the estate's own extra virgin olive oil (which is stupidly divine and peppery) in Dimboola. It comes in chili as well.
Apparently the guy calls you for credit card information and drives over to your place to deliver it. My friend wasn't home so he hides them in the bushes.
Yeah, these guys. Funnily enough, Nicolas is not for corner-shop....it is just the guy's last name. Yes, he is Greek...and no, I am not stereotyping people, I went on the website.
Later, I see my friends and offer them olives...we all order some online.
Blah blah blah...I have to go to class, or at least pretend I am listening in this one. You get the drift.
Check it out...ah, gotta love Melbourne Uni wi-fi.