Olive consumption isn’t for everyone.
Years ago I thought olives to be the foulest of food groups. Especially black olives. I defined it a vegetable turd. Then I discovered the stuffed green “cocktail” olive. Garlic, jalapeño, red pepper, and blue cheese fillings changed my perspective and palette. These little bastards are delicious! And not just on their own or in martinis.
An old friend introduced me to dropping stuffed olives into an ice cold pint of beer. I know it sounds weird, but this peaceful bombardment is actually a culinary and bartending gem. It adds a certain degree of saltiness and flavor that explodes within its sudsy confines. And bonus, there’s a snack at the bottom of the glass. I love snacks.
I feel like I might owe that old friend something for opening my eyes. However, our lives moved in separate directions. I haven’t seen him or spoken with him in years. No, I am not not an active proponent of social media interactions. If we’re not doing life together in real time, I do not want to pretend we’re still connected because I read something about you on Facebook or Instagram.
Nonetheless, I think of him as the stuffed olives topple over the rim and float to the bottom of my sweaty, frosted glass.
The standard number of olives is two. No particular reason other than I like even numbers. Pairing up is better than going solo. Plus, it’s biblical. If Noah had beer and stuffed olives on the ark, I’m certain he would have dropped two in his glass as well.
This particular night I drink a Sam Adam’s Oktoberfest. It is well past October. This beer deserves better than to be shoved in the back corner of a bar frig. And it deserves to have olives plunked into the pour.
Tonight will require drinking no less than two beers. One is an odd number and this simply will not do. In short order I pour another Oktoberfest ale, add two more olives, and reminisce of another old friend, Ken. Working strictly in pairs is fun mathematics. Two friends, two beers, two olives.
I drank my first beer with Ken.
The first time I entered a strip club, he led the way. He handed me my first cigarette. Ken basically acted as my social director for all vice related activities during high school. I’m pretty sure the first time I had to explain myself to a police officer, Ken stood right next to me. Naturally, he became CPA. That’s otherwise defined as not so fun mathematics.
The floating olives remind me when Ken and I creatively acquired a canoe and tried to paddle across the Potomac River from Virginia to Maryland. Ah, larceny. Another vice to add to the list. I wonder if Ken has a juvenile corruption Excel spreadsheet listing out our antics. He probably files it in a folder named “beyond the statute of limitations”.
The two of us successfully navigate one of the Potomac River’s tributaries, Little Hunting Creek. I define success as not sinking the canoe or drowning. It’s a warm sunny day with hardly a cloud in the sky. Unfortunately it’s also March and rather windy. The creek and river water remain quite cold. I combat the elements with thick cotton sweatpants. Smart choice.
I don’t know why we picked Maryland as our destination, other than it’s there. I don’t even like Maryland. Besides, how might we know if that strange land’s inhabitants will be friendly? That debate became moot as the canoe begins to fill with water halfway across the Potomac.
It’s a mile across the Potomac River between Virginia and Maryland.
We discuss our options. Option one, we try and make it to Maryland, dump out the water, and hope we can paddle back to Virginia without sinking. As Maryland remains a foreign land, we rule out option one. This leaves us with only option two. We redirect the canoe and paddled the ill-gotten vessel back to our motherland. A certain panic level rises with each stroke.
The canoe continues to leak. Cold river water splashes over my hightop Converses. The path along the Virginia shoreline is filled with bicyclers, joggers, and those out for a leisurely walk. I really don’t want these fine people witnessing our canoe sinking and us swimming ashore in March. It would be hard to look too cool after that.
We hit the beach, drag the canoe ashore, and dump out the water.
Instead of river water filling my shoes, a wave of relief washes over me. As I lie there, I realize I’ve never seen somebody canoe across the Potomac. Alongside the shoreline yes, but never in open water amongst the boat traffic. Yet another smart choice. I’d blame Ken, but honestly it seemed like a really good idea at the time.
Such is life. I devour the garlic stuffed olives while I stroke my gray goat-tee and ponder the next beer selection. I grab a multi-colored can. It’s a sour ale. I hate sours. How did this get in my frig? There’s an outside chance that a stuffed olive could redeem its horrid taste, but I’m doubtful. Maybe I can use it to boil shrimp.
I place that can of pasteurized piss water back on the shelf and grab a Shiner Holiday brew. It’s not Christmas, but I’m feeling festive. Another pair of olives take a swim, this time in a Texas ale. It’s always good to swim with a partner. 6 olives and three beers. Mathematics is still fun.
As Ken and I soak in sunlight instead of river water, a pair of college girls begin speaking with us. They saw us paddling in the middle the Potomac. In true Ken fashion, he tells them we attend James Madison University. I don’t even have a driver’s license, much less a college major.
Fear grips me tighter now than it did in the middle of the river.
I have nothing to add to his elaborate fabrication, so I magnificently play the role of the mute friend. I’m shocked they can’t see through his story and put two and two together. I thought college kids were smarter. Mathematics can be confusing, I reason.
But that’s okay. Just like olive consumption, mathematics it isn’t for everyone.