three quarters of a litre of green-gold, cold-pressed in november of a long year. it sits beside the stove next to a kitchen cloth and a small plate for the cork. by february it has gone the colour of pale straw and lost its peppery bite; by may it is only a memory of olives held in a thicker oil.
the label is the colour of bone, printed in two faded greens and one faded red. olio extra vergine across the top in small caps; Frascarelli in a slow italic; below that, in micro-type, the village whose name no one in this house has ever pronounced aloud, and the lot number, and the warning to keep from light.
used by anyone cooking after dark — a thumb's-worth into the pan before the garlic, a longer pour over bread and salt at the end of a bad afternoon. the bottle empties faster than you think and slower than the year.
a thin film clings to the inside of the neck after the last pour. tilt it to the lamp: it is the same gold as the candle, only patient.
see also the vinegar on the next shelf, the essence of lemon in the cupboard, and the slower slow kettle.