The Leaning Tower of Pisa

I’ve got a thing for books. Some might describe it as an obsession; I prefer to call it a lifelong passion. There’s something comforting and reassuring about books. A simple stroll along an aisle of books in any decent library is enough to evoke feelings of wonderment and awe.

Bibliophiles generally fall into two categories: those who love books for what they contain; others who love books for what they are (as objects). I flit between both.

Books as objects are admirable treasures. Traditionally made books, with elaborate bindings, are relished as products of skilled craftsmen; they are pleasing to the eye, to the touch, and to the nose (have you ever noticed how every book smells differently, or that their smell changes over time?) They are good to have around, to look at, or to hold.

Then there is the content. The ‘mind-dump’ from inspired and inspirational people, the ‘literary-offspring’ of millions of people. An astounding 206,000 books were published in the UK in 2005 alone; to get through them all would require a reading rate of almost 4,000 books per week. There would never be any time to read previously published works.

Books contain so many thoughts; so many ideas; so many paragraphs; so many words. There is so little time.

Still, I am all for giving a lot of reading a go. Over the past few months the pile next
to my bed has been stealthily, quietly growing. It has gained sufficient height, sufficient wobbliness and is positioned at such a precarious angle to now warrant the prestigious title of ‘The Leaning Tower of Pisa’.

All in all, over 50 tomes are part of this architectural feat. They are a randomly positioned, hierarchical-free lot (there’s not a hint of the traditional literary canon, no rhyme nor reason; in fact, Marcus Clarkes’ His Natural Life is sandwiched between Hilary McPhee’s Other People’s Words and Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, all three are stacked on Marion Halligan’s Cockles of the Heart and Deborah Dean’s The Madonnas of Leningrad. I am hoping that there will be no holidays to Nepal in the near future as I have no idea I am going to extract that particular Lonely Planet from its current position). And I am determined to get through them all – eventually!

I think I’ll start now. If you hear a crash, and a few choice words, you’ll know I’ve just extracted Edmund Burke’s A Philosophical Enquiry!

Recipes

Preparing olives

Once you have harvested your olives – a sometimes precarious activity involving a ladder, a basket and lots of shaking – they need to be fermented before they can be eaten.

Wash and drain approximately 5kg of fresh olives in water. In a separate container – such as a large plastic tub, dissolve 400g of sea salt in 3.5 litres of water. Stir in half a cup of white wine vinegar. Make one or two deep scores in each olive with a knife, before placing them in the container. Place a plate on the top of the olives to ensure they are completely submerged, and then seal the container, and leave for about a month.

Once your olives have fermented, add garlic, herbs, or lemon juice to flavour, or enjoy as they are.

Olive and Fetta Bruschetta

8 large vine-ripened tomatoes, roughly chopped
200g fetta cheese
Handful of roughly chopped black olives
2 cloves garlic
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
6 slices sour dough bread
1 handful of torn fresh basil

Mix the tomatoes, olives, fetta, basil and one chopped clove of garlic together in a bowl.
Brush the bread with the olive oil and then rub with remaining clove of garlic. Place the bread on a hot grill plate until golden on both sides.
Top with the tomato mixture, drizzle with balsamic vinegar.
Season to taste, and serve immediately.

The things we hear

Travelling on public transport can be an interesting experience, to say the least. It can give rise to an unhealthy mix of sorrows and pleasures – you can never be too sure that you aren’t going to be chicken-wing tackled between stops by the person you are sitting next to; whether you will have to politely engage in conversation with an alcohol-fuelled, dishevelled-looking would-be philosopher; assist a harassed looking mother to wipe her baby’s vomit from the shoulder of a bewildered businessman; or find a gold coin.

I was recently travelling into the city centre by bus when I overheard a high school student ask a fellow traveller, ‘Excuse me, how do you spell albatross?’

Coleridge was on the curriculum again. It made me wonder how many essays about The Rime of the Ancient Mariner had been written in unusual places. Whilst at university a lecturer once confessed that he marked student essays in the bath, after someone had complained about smudge marks appearing on his handwritten text,

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

In the case of my lecturer, it is probably fair to say that there were way too many ‘drops to drink’. Way too many.
After a few seconds, the man on the bus responded by confidently – and correctly – spelling the requested word. [He too, I conjectured, had obviously studied it at school.] The bus continued winding its way into the city.

God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--
Why look'st thou so?'-'With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross.

Shortly before the man alighted from the bus, he turned to the student and, his voice full of doubt, said, ‘I’m not sure that albatross is correct. You’d better check the spelling’. What is it about those birds? The albatross appeared to have been giving the man as much consternation as the Ancient Mariner himself!

The Olive Branch is brought to you by the Green Olive Press: http://www.greenolivepress.com/. We look forward to receiving your thoughts, musings and contributions at: editor@greenolivepress.com