There’s a difference between an experiment and practical use. And there’s a difference between proving a point and doing something of value. If I’ve learned nothing else during the Olive Toil challenge, I have learned that.
Another day, another olive. I have no idea what number it is — I lost count a while back. Olives tend to blend into one another.
There’s a world of different between being able to tolerate something and actively seeking said ‘thing’ out. A world of difference.
It was an ill combination. Too much Mexican. A metric arse-load of cheese nestled alongside an unhealthy amount of shredded pork. Three Diet Cokes to wash it down, all sloshing around in my stomach. In the back seat of our car I decided to read a book — a surefire way to add a mild wave of car sickness to the pile-on. And in my mind, buzzing around my brain like a schizophrenic mosquito, the knowledge that I still had to head home and eat Olive #3.
It’s soft. My molars don’t feel much resistance as I chew. My first thought is: “this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be”. But that’s just the garlic, and the hint of chilli it was doused in. That subsides quickly . . . Now I’m left with the overwhelming, unfamiliar, unavoidable taste of the olive I’ve just forced myself to eat.
