Poem: Olive

A taste as old as cold, cold water,
don’t put them in long drinks, but shorter
martinis or a Bloody Mary.
They clear the head and make it airy,
with taste more frugal than fresh meat,
more old than ancient wine, as neat
as cashews, macadamias,
and roasted tongue, not gamey as.

If still your fancy is not tickled,
try having one the Greeks have pickled.

Now as for olives’ essence, oil:
to butter man is only loyal
if he has never tasted theirs,
an essence the Almighty cares
so much about that He demanded
to light menorahs and  commanded
that olive oil should by the Jews
be burnt and constantly in use,
as if to say: “The olive tree
was made by me so you may see
how lovely are my groves.”  Oh Lord!
The greatest glimpse you can afford,
to those few who try hard to qualif-
y holiness-wise, it is the olive!

So don’t burn candles every night
of Hanukkah––they may be bright,
for olive oil on Hanukkah
is purer and organicker.

Gershon Hepner

Chanukah 5781

Christopher Lehmann-Haupt reviews Mort Rosenblum’s Olives: The Life and Lore of a Noble Fruit:

Americans may well be catching on to the wondrous benefits of good olive oil, as Mort Rosenblum reports hearing from several experts in his edifying new book, ”Olives: The Life and Lore of a Noble Fruit.” Nonetheless, he writes, ”as of 1996 only one American household in five had tried olive oil.” Most people in this country still think of an olive as ”no more than a humble lump at the bottom of a martini.” Too few understand what moved Lawrence Durrell to write in ”Prospero’s Cell” of black olives: ”A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.”