Olive Oil and Epiphanies

I was 22 when I left the sun-drenched hills of southern Europe—specifically a sleepy coastal town in southern Italy where Nonna’s tomato sauce was more sacred than Sunday mass. I had dreams of seeing the world, learning languages, making money, and maybe even trying out those mysterious "ready meals" I saw on British TV shows.

I started with Ireland, land of rolling green hills, friendly folks, and a suspicious relationship with potatoes. Lovely place, truly. But oh, the food. I’ll never forget my first full Irish breakfast. I sat staring at a plate that looked like it had survived a car crash—sausages, black pudding, baked beans, toast, eggs, tomatoes (but not in a salad, mind you—just... plopped there). And it was all beige. I missed the color of my plate. I missed olive oil.

Next, I moved to the UK, where things got even weirder. I once saw someone microwave a fish pie. A fish pie. In a plastic container. I called my mother after that and she cried a little. Not for me—just for the fish.

Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not here to bash anyone’s traditions. I’m just saying, growing up, my meals came from the earth, not a packet. Lunch was tomatoes still warm from the sun, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with oregano that grew on the hill behind our house. Bread came from the bakery at the corner, not a plastic bag that promised “Best Before: 2037.”

I moved around quite a bit after that. France wasn’t bad—closer to home, food-wise. The French have respect for meals, I’ll give them that. But the butter—my God, the butter. Everything is soaked in it. Delicious, yes. But after a month, I swear my pores were clogged with béchamel.

Switzerland was beautiful and clean and terrifyingly efficient. I learned to ski and to eat fondue without passing out. But I also learned that fresh produce there costs roughly the same as a small yacht. A bell pepper? 3 francs. I bought a zucchini once and considered insuring it.

Then came Germany. Solid country. Great bread. And sausage. So much sausage. Breakfast sausage, lunch sausage, dinner sausage. By month three, I was dreaming of grilled eggplant. My body began staging a quiet rebellion—my stomach would growl every time I walked past a Turkish grocer and saw the crates of tomatoes, cucumbers, lemons, and fresh herbs.

And that’s when it hit me—what I had back home wasn't just food. It was a way of living.

Back in my little Italian town, meals were events. You didn’t just eat, you dined. We’d sit down for lunch, sip wine, argue about politics, and eat whatever was fresh and local. Pasta with zucchini from the garden. Chickpeas with rosemary. Fresh anchovies with lemon. Even our snacks were low-key healthy—figs, almonds, maybe a piece of Pecorino.

Abroad, meals often felt like speed bumps in the day—something to be shoved in the mouth between meetings, commutes, or naps. Half the time people didn’t even sit down to eat! I saw a man in London eat a sandwich standing in the rain like it was a punishment.

And the oil! Don’t get me started on the oil! Back home, olive oil is gold. We pour it like love over everything. In Ireland, I once asked if the shop had extra virgin olive oil and the clerk handed me a bottle of vegetable oil and said, “Same thing, love.” I had to sit down.

I slowly realized that the Mediterranean diet wasn’t just about what we ate. It was about how we ate. It was the rhythm of the day. The social side of meals. The respect for seasonal ingredients. We didn’t count calories; we counted heads around the table.

Of course, I didn’t fully appreciate it until I left. Isn’t that always the way? You think everyone eats like you do—until you’re offered haggis in Scotland or raw cabbage in Berlin and start questioning your life choices.

Eventually, I moved back home. I now live in the same house where I grew up, and the kitchen still smells like garlic and tomatoes most days. I’ve got a little herb garden, a pile of cookbooks I never use (because Nonna’s recipes live in my head), and a deep respect for a simple lunch of grilled sardines, a cucumber salad, and a hunk of bread.

Sometimes I host friends from abroad, and they marvel at how flavorful everything is. I always smile and say, “It’s just olive oil and sunlight.”

But really, it’s the Mediterranean diet—the kind you don’t find in a book or a 10-day cleanse. It’s in the lazy lunches, the laughter, the slow cooking, and the joy of real food shared with real people.

And maybe, just maybe, a glass of wine at noon. For health reasons, of course.

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