(my tiny love story)
By Sara Kandler
Unpacking the shopping bag from Marshalls, my husband sits a chrome cruet on our kitchen countertop. He has a thing for olive oil. Its bold ticket — marked “Oil Can” — tickles me. “Let’s see how much American culture you’ve assimilated over the years!” I tease, and grab the oil can, stiffen my body, grit my teeth and screech, “Oil can, oil can…”
“Wizard of Oz!” he shouts, proudly.
I also know a thing or two about his homeland, like how first cold press is an absolute must, and the age-old olive trees shimmer like silvery fish on the breezy hills above Fez.
Connect with Sara: https://medium.com/@sarakandler
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