FOOD BLOG      

A Toast to the Harvester   Rachel Glueck •  Oct 14, 2009 •  1 Comment »

With the rebirth of farmer's markets and the spread of the local food movement, an appreciation for the farmer's time and toil has sprouted in the consumer consciousness. Thank God for that, and long overdue, I say, but there is one element of the agricultural equation that continues to go unappreciated: the harvester. Having landed in the Languedoc-Roussillon several months ago sans langue locale (i.e., sans job opportunity), and finding myself in the hands of a handsome French olive farmer, I had the rare opportunity (or obligation) to explore the life of an olive harvester first hand.

The 600+ trees that Rémi Eugene cares for are spread out over 4 neighboring locations in the South West corner of France. The harvest begins in early September and goes through October or November. The olives - mainly Lucques and a few Picholines - are picked and sold to the local olive cooperative, L'Oulibo. This year the co-op wasn't buying black olives, so it was important to pick quickly before they'd fully matured.

The day is long and begins before dawn. We wake at 6, shovel breakfast into our groggy mouths, down a mug of coffee, and step out into the dark morning. We drive out to the olive orchards (the other harvesters and I crammed into the back of the Citroën wagon amongst dozens of crates), park between the trees, strap on our green buckets and commence the picking. Each person takes a row of trees and we move along quietly - nothing but the snap of the fruit from its branch and the satisfying plunk in the bucket. The sun is rising; warm hues spread through the chill fields and the birds begin their morning fuss.

We pick from 7:30 until Noon, when we stop for a half-hour lunch break, and then it's on again ‘til 5. It's nine hours of nearly straight picking, and for a girl that's just come off four months vacation, it's not a joke. The mornings are peaceful and I'm still feeling strong by lunchtime. It's the afternoons that are rough. Once the sun is beating down in full strength, you begin to notice your discomfort. The olive branch, the international symbol of peace, becomes a vicious aggressor. It slaps you across the face as you pluck its precious gems. It plunges its leaves, long and slender, in your ears, your eyeballs, and up your nostrils (I actually had a nose bleed from this the first day). But that's just the physical strain. After the first four hours of staring at olives, my mind is twitching. I begin to forget what it is I'm picking. I start to mistake the olives for cashews, then limes, then chili peppers. Maybe they're tiny apples or Muscat grapes. After 7 hours I'm seeing hundreds of little Banana Peppers dangling all around my head. I think I'm losing it. By five pm, I've picked 250 lbs. My neck is aching from looking upward all day, my shoulders ache from the weight of the bucket, my arms ache from reaching and pulling on branches, my eyes are bloodshot from squinting in the sun, my back is killing me, and my mind is f---ed from the sight of olives, olives, olives. We return home with just enough time and energy to shower, eat, and pass out. I close my eyes and see nothing but olives swaying in the wind. I'm thinking, "How the hell am I going to keep this up for 4 more weeks??"

Having no other foreseeable job options, I suck it up. My body accepts the ache and pain before my mind does. For me (and I would imagine it's the same for most Americans, trained to be perpetually stimulated by flashy images, constantly entertained by external action) it is the monotony - of both action and vision - that is the most difficult to accept. I think of the thousands of migrant pickers in the States, and how they do this, not for 1 or 2 months, but year round - and without the romantic surroundings of ancient villages and small family farms, but on enormous tracks of industrial land. I think of all those who protest illegal immigrants, yet enjoy the fruits of their labor, and I fail to imagine the same number of Americans lining up for such repetitive, under-valued, physically-exhausting jobs year after year. I think of all the fruits and legumes I've consumed over my lifetime without the slightest thought of the men and women who have sweated and toiled for my vegetal enjoyment, earning just enough money to feed their families. I remember the conversation I had with someone in the States. When I told him I had a job picking olives for the season, he asked, "Why don't you use your college education and get a real job?" Thinking back on it, I realize I've been given a whole new appreciation for the food that nourishes my body each and every day, and for those who work to produce it, and I wonder: what could be more real than that?

Rachel Glueck is a server at nopa
Posted October 14, 2009 • Filed under Where Our Food Comes From • Share: del.icio.us / StumbleUpon / Digg
Photos by Rachel Glueck

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