Rest in Pieces

Flask of golden-green

Eighteen years in my kitchen

Dispensing goodness

This is not my decanter,
but a soulless picture I found on the internet.

When we bought our first house in 2000, I found a beautiful bottle of extra virgin olive oil. A clear, round beauty, with a narrow neck, stopped by a cork. My mom has always said that when you move into a house you should be greeted by salt and oil in the kitchen, and I was happy to have this beautiful decanter there for our welcome home.

As the years passed I refilled this bottle many, many times—always with extra-virgin olive oil; the cork disintegrated and was replaced by another; bottles of vinegar joined it on its Lazy-Susan home next to my stove, but it was always there. I even drew its portrait to include in my cookbook. 

Then today the unthinkable happened. As I was pan-cooking some pita breads for dinner, my elbow crashed into my beautiful olive oil bottle. My hands were full of flatbread, and I could feel, rather than see, the vessel falling, tumbling over and over in slow motion, until finally it shattered on the floor by my feet. (I am sorry to confess my sorrow for the decanter was tainted by the inconvenience of trying to finish cooking while standing in a puddle of about two cups of olive oil, and the fear of stepping barefoot on glass or slipping and falling in it. Alas!)

Unfortunately this is the only picture we have of my beloved bottle.
How could we have known the cruel fate that would befall it? 

Bruce happened to be walking into the kitchen just as this horrible accident occurred. "Oh, You," he regretfully said, "your bottle!" He swept the floor around me, saving my bare feet from broken glass even as he mourned the loss of my golden flask. This act of kindness did spread a little more oil over a lot more floor, but he was working on another ox in the mire, and I sent him to finish that task. When the pitas were finally all cooked and covered, I turned to the task of cleaning oil from my tile floor. 

But before I could start, Kaylie called from the park where my girls were playing with friends; they needed a ride home. Intending to explain that I had to clean the floor before I went to get them, I said, "My olive oil bottle fell down and shattered, so I..." 

Kaylie interrupted, "Ohh. That's sad!" Yes, it is sad. 

I shuffled the floor with a wet rag under my feet until I could no longer see a pool of oil. Then I squirted dish soap straight onto the floor, and did the Mopping Shuffle again, this time with a new, wet rag. I rinsed all the soap from that rag, wet it again, and shuffled my way around the kitchen a third time. Then I used my mop with some hot water to get remaining the soap off of the floor. At last I changed the mop-head and did one last scrub with hot water. As I cleaned the floor I contemplated the loss of my long-time friend, now swept unceremoniously into the kitchen trash, and soon on its way to an ignominious burial in the landfill.

Ryan got home from work and saw me shuffling around the floor instead of cooking dinner. I said, "My olive oil bottle fell down." He said, "Oh. That's sad; that was a really nice bottle." 

I sent Ryan to get the kids while I finished my task. Lindsey walked in; I told her the olive oil bottle broke. "Oh," she mourned, "that's sad." And when Michael heard the news a little later his response was as remorseful as the others. Yes, this bottle of olive oil was a friend to our whole family, living in our home for as long as my children could remember. Alas!

There's one more bottle in heaven ¯...

Gone, and lost to us;

Lazy Susan will pine for you.

Nothing left but cork.