Ode to Olive Oil

I love olive oil.  Really.  I do.  I use it almost exclusively when cooking.  I tend to use the Kalamata oil, but will use anything which has that deep, rich flavor - and I like it when the color is green, not yellow.

I also love the poetry of Pablo Neruda who wrote his odes about everyday things. Olive Oil was no exception.

Oda al Aceitepor Pablo Neruda Cerca del rumoroso Cereal, de las olas Del viento en las avenas El olivo De volumen plateado Severo en su linaje En su torcido Corazón terrestre: Las Gráciles Olivas Pulidas Por los dedos Que hicieron La paloma Y el caracol Marino: Verdes, Inumerables, Purísimas Pezones De la naturaleza, Y allí En Los secos Olivares Donde Tan solo Cielo azul con cigarras Y tierra dura Existen Allí El prodigio La cápsula Perfecta De la oliva Llenando Con sus constelaciones el foliaje Más tarde Las vasijas, El milagro, El aceite. Yo amo Las patrias del aceite Los olivares De Chaeabuco, en Chile En la mañana Las plumas de platino Forestales Contra las arrugadas Cordilleras. En Anacapri, arriba, Sobre la luz tirrena La desesperación de los olivos Y en la mapa de Europa España Cesta negra de aceitunas Espolvoreada por los azahares Como por una ráfaga marina Aceite Recóndita y suprema Condición de la olla Pedestal de perdices Llave celeste de la mayonesa Suave y sabroso Sobre las lechugas Y sobrenatural en el infierno De los arzo bispales pejerreyes Nuestro coro Con Intima Suavidad poderosa Cantas: Eres idioma Castellano Hay sílabas de aceite Hay palabras Útiles y olorosas Como tu fragrante material. No solo canta el vino También canta el aceite Vive en nosotros con su luz madura Y entre los bienes de la tierra Aparto Aceite, Tu inagotable paz, tu esencia verde Tu colmado tesoro que desciende Desde los manantiales del olivo.

Ode to Olive Oil by Pablo Neruda Near the murmuring In the grain fields, of the waves Of wind in the oat-stalks The olive tree With its silver-covered mass Severe in its lines In its twisted Heart in the earth: The graceful Olives Polished By the hands Which made The dove And the oceanic Snail: Green, Inumerable, Immaculate Nipples Of nature And there In The dry Olive Groves Where Alone The blue sky with cicadas And the hard earth Exist There The prodigy The perfect Capsules Of the olives Filling With their constellations, the foliage Then later, The bowls, The miracle, The olive oil. I love The homelands of olive oil The olive groves Of Chacabuco, in Chile In the morning Feathers of platinum Forests of them Against the wrinkled Mountain ranges. In Anacapri, up above, Over the light of the Italian sea Is the despair of olive trees And on the map of Europe Spain A black basketfull of olives Dusted off by orange blossoms As if by a sea breeze Olive oil, The internal supreme Condition for the cooking pot Pedestal for game birds Heavenly key to mayonaise Smoothe and tasty Over the lettuce And supernatural in the hell Of the king mackerals like archbishops Our chorus With Intimate Powerful smoothness You sing: You are the Spanish Laguage There are syllables of olive oil There are words Useful and rich-smelling Like your fragrant material It's not only wine that sings Olive oil sings too It lives in us with its ripe light And among the good things of the earth I set apart Olive oil, Your ever-flowing peace, your green essence Your heaped-up treasure which descends In streams from the olive tree.

Van Gogh image from Photobucket