Boy, the Italians sure do love their olive oil. Especially their extra virgin olive oil. The agritourismo where we stayed was home to one of Tuscany’s oldest olive groves. In the 80s, a massive frost killed off many of Italy’s olive groves. Not this one:
To continue to produce fruit, olive trees need pruning every couple of years. Like this:
This place makes outstanding olive oil, and they put it on everything. Like bread (with their own prosciutto):
And they got us to put it on everything, too. Like for dipping our own bread (with their own egg and cheese and chutney):
We drizzled it over soups:
We drizzled it over pastas:
We drizzled it over salads:
We drizzled it over veggies:
We glugged it into pasta dough:
We drank it straight:
And we had it rubbed on our bodies. The missus and I both got massages while we were there. During the warm weather months, they do them in the olive grove under the Tuscan sun. It was cold enough that we just did ours in our room.
I tell you what: they do a different type of massage in Italy. Let’s just say that, by the end of the massage, I’m pretty sure that Simone (that’s Italian for Simon, not French for Simone) was my friend on Facebook, he was following me on Twitter, and he was definitely the mayor of me on FourSquare.
Seriously, though, Simone lathered us up with olive oil. I was completely covered in it. I was so oily when it was over that we could’ve dipped bread on me and had a delicious snack. I’d been given the optional, disposable underwear (I opted to wear it, yes), and it was oily, too:
Frankly, I didn’t know how to put that sucker on, so for the sake of pride I just put the big part over my business. I disposed of them immediately after this photo was taken. They made me a little uncomfortable — physically and emotionally.