1971
My father planted
three hundred trees
and never sold a drop.
For fifty years, Gioacchino pressed his own oil in the hills above Borgetto — enough for the family, the neighbors, and whoever showed up at the door in November. It was never a business. It was a table, a loaf of bread, and a green-gold pour you could smell from across the room.
When he passed, the grove kept giving. So I started carrying tins across the Atlantic, pressing in Sicily and pouring in Illinois — the same trees, the same hands at harvest, the same oil he'd have set in front of you without a word.
Marco LupoFounder · Park Ridge, Illinois
Olives, tins & market days — as they happen.