anxiety attacks + olive oil

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It's more Wuthering Heights than Room With A View. The wind is howling, the rain is hammering on the windows and I'm wearing two pairs of socks and a flannel dressing gown.  It's so glamorous on a Tuscan farm...
I got so wet picking the olives that I have a wicked cold. But...it was worth it.
Last year, our oil was very average because we picked too late. The olives were overly mature and were left too long in their crates. So this year, I decided to wage war on mediocracy and make damn sure that 2010 was the year for amazing oil.
We started picking at 8am on Friday morning. The mill gets over booked at this time of year, so you have to adhere to your time slot. I had to deliver 15 crates by Saturday 4.30pm otherwise they wouldn't press. My Anglo-saxon genes kicked in and I reveled in the pressure. We had just over 24 hours to pick 150 trees.
I plied my team of pickers with cakes from Chieli and nagged them every 20 minutes. They just nodded and smiled, bewildered by the mad English woman forcing them to eat cakes that are more suited to the Upper East Side. The hill was silent but for the rustling of leaves and the sound of olives plopping onto the nets. Basking in my Tuscan idyll, I was oblivious to Franco, our gardener, shouting at me;
“Are you sure those olives are ready, they look a bit green to me?”
My heart stopped, panic ensued.”What?” I climbed down from my tree and rushed over to Franco.
“No, no. We picked them too late last year. I don't want to make the same mistake twice!”
“Ok, whatever you think is best.”
“Whatever I think is best?” Good God man you could have mentioned it earlier.
Stressed and anxious I continued picking. Friday night I didn't sleep a wink. Apart from wanting to prove Franco wrong, if the oil was terrible, I would be throwing hundreds of euros down the drain.
4pm on Saturday finally arrived and I began my journey to the mill. I was met by Dante, who smiled as he hauled the olive-laden crates out of the car. He suddenly turned to me with his thumbs up;
“Brava, Brava!”
I almost fainted, if Dante thinks they're OK, we're half way there. The next step was to get the olives pressed. After two long hours, a steady stream of fluorescent green oil trickled and then poured into the can.
I ripped open a piece of bread and smothered it in oil.
It was so peppery, it stung my lips! Quality and quantity in abundance, 161 liters!
Exhausted and satisfied, I dragged myself in front of the fire, poured myself a large Pomegranate Prosecco and started to dial Franco's number....

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