Diary of an Olive Oil Somellier

Stories of Flavor, Travel, and Transformation

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  • Bringing People Together, One Table at a Time

    There’s a quiet kind of magic that happens when people gather around a table. Not a fancy table. Not a perfect one. Just a table—maybe a little crowded, maybe mismatched chairs, maybe a loaf of bread torn by hand instead of sliced neatly. The kind of table where stories spill as easily as olive oil and no one is counting minutes.

    Food has always been our oldest invitation.

    Before reservations and tasting menus, before trends and timelines, we gathered to eat because we needed one another. To share. To pause. To belong. A table was never just about nourishment—it was about connection. About listening. About leaning in.

    Olive oil, in particular, carries this tradition beautifully. It’s humble and generous. It doesn’t demand attention, but it rewards it. A drizzle on warm bread becomes an opening line. A splash in a salad becomes a conversation starter. A tasting becomes an excuse to slow down and notice something together.

    I see it every time people come into a tasting or a class. Strangers arrive politely distant, arms crossed, phones tucked close. Then a bottle is opened. Someone coughs at the peppery finish. Someone else laughs. “Is it supposed to do that?” And suddenly the room softens. Questions follow. Opinions form. Memories surface—of a grandmother’s kitchen, a trip to Italy, a meal that lingered longer than expected.

    That’s the moment people start to gather—not just physically, but emotionally.

    Bringing people together doesn’t require perfection. It requires intention. A willingness to open a door, pour a little something, and say, “Try this.” Food does the rest. It gives people permission to talk. To disagree kindly. To share something real.

    In a world that often feels rushed and divided, the act of gathering has become quietly radical. Sitting down together—without an agenda, without a screen between us—is a small rebellion against speed and isolation. It reminds us that we are more alike than different. That bitterness and pungency, like in a good olive oil, are not flaws—they’re part of what gives depth and character.

    When people gather around food, walls come down. Conversations drift from recipes to life. From what’s for dinner to what really matters. You can feel the shift in the room—the way laughter gets easier, shoulders drop, time stretches.

    You don’t need a special occasion to bring people together. A Tuesday night works just fine. A simple salad, a good olive oil, a bottle passed hand to hand.

    Pull up another chair. Tear the bread. Drizzle generously.

    The table has always been waiting.

    Suzanne, The Olive Oil Gal

  • Every Olive Tells a Story: Understanding EVOO Cultivars

    Most people know that Chardonnay doesn’t taste like a Cabernet.
    Different grapes, different flavors, different personalities — that’s the magic of wine.

    But olive oil works the very same way.

    Olives aren’t interchangeable. Every bottle of real extra virgin olive oil begins with a cultivar — a specific olive variety — and each one has its own character shaped by climate, soil, and harvest. Once you learn to taste EVOO by cultivar, the whole world of flavor opens up.

    Cultivar = Personality

    Just like grapes, different olives are genetically different. That’s why some oils taste tender and buttery, and others are peppery enough to make you cough — in the best way.

    A cultivar determines:

    • Intensity
    • Fruitiness
    • Bitterness
    • Peppery pungency
    • Polyphenol levels
    • Best culinary pairings

    There is no “best” olive. Only the one that fits the moment — the recipe, the mood, the season, the cravings.

    A Few Cultivars You May Already Know

    Koroneiki (Greece)

    Small fruit, mighty flavor.
    Bold • Herbaceous • Peppery finish
    A favorite for people who love a “three-cough” olive oil.
    Perfect with Greek salad, tomatoes, lentils, grilled vegetables, lamb.

    Picual (Spain)

    Green and complex.
    Tomato leaf • Artichoke • Slight heat
    One of the highest in natural antioxidants.
    Incredible with bread, potatoes, roasted vegetables, and sautéed greens.

    Coratina (Italy)

    The powerhouse of intensity.
    Bitter almond • Arugula • Black pepper
    A gorgeous choice for adventurous palates.
    Stands up to steaks, pizza, winter soups, aged cheeses.

    Arbequina (Spain)

    Soft and welcoming.
    Buttery • Mild • Fruity
    Gentle enough for beginners, beloved by everyone.
    Perfect for eggs, seafood, mashed potatoes, baking.

    With just these four oils in a kitchen, a home cook can transform their food all year long.

    The Harvest Layer

    Just as wine changes with each vintage, real EVOO changes with each harvest.

    Early harvest = more polyphenols, more bitterness, more pepper.
    Later harvest = softer, fruitier, more mellow.
    Rainfall, heat, soil, and timing all matter.

    So when you fall in love with a cultivar in a particular season, enjoy it now — next year it will be the same olive, but a brand-new expression of it.

    How to Taste Like a Pro

    Next time you’re sampling EVOO:

    1. Try two cultivars side by side.
    2. Smell first — notice what memories or aromas show up.
    3. Sip without bread to experience the true flavor.
    4. Notice the “big three”: fruitiness • bitterness • peppery finish.
    5. Then taste with food — this is where pairings shine.

    You may discover Koroneiki is your go-to for hearty dishes,
    Arbequina for comfort food,
    Picual for vegetables,
    and Coratina when life calls for something bold.

    The Takeaway

    Once you understand cultivars, olive oil stops being a pantry item and becomes an experience.

    You’ll begin to choose oils not by color of the bottle, but by:

    • the origin
    • the cultivar
    • the harvest
    • the flavor personality

    And cooking becomes more joyful, more intuitive, more delicious.

    Every olive has a story — and the best way to hear it is in every drizzle, every dish, every meal shared around the table.

  • A Drizzle of Gratitude

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    Every November, we’re reminded to slow down, gather, and give thanks. And while Thanksgiving looks a little different for everyone — big families, small tables, Friendsgiving, beach picnics, or even a quiet dinner for one — the heart of it is always the same:

    we show love by feeding each other.

    In the olive oil world, we talk constantly about health, polyphenols, flavor profiles, harvest seasons, and regions — and yes, all of that matters. But lately I’ve been thinking about something simpler:

    ✨ Olive oil is really an act of generosity.
    We press a fruit, bottle the best of it, and share it — not because we have to eat, but because we want the people we love to enjoy something beautiful.

    Maybe that’s why drizzling olive oil over warm bread or tossing a salad for the table feels so much like a love language.

    This Thanksgiving, I’m grateful for:
    • the comfort of meals shared with the people who make life sweeter
    • the magic of recipes passed down, rewritten, and reinvented
    • the familiar clink of dishes, laughter in the kitchen, and “just a little more”
    • farmers and producers who pour their hearts into every harvest
    • and you — the community that reminds me every day why food matters

    No matter what you’re serving this week — turkey, tofurkey, lasagna, oysters, or takeout (no judgment here!) — I hope your table is filled with warmth, connection, and something delicious.

    And if a beautiful drizzle of olive oil happens to make its way across your plate?
    Even better. 💛

    Happy Thanksgiving from my table to yours.

    — Suzanne, The Olive Oil Gal

  • Pungency: The Bold One in the Room

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    If fruitiness is the soul of olive oil, and bitterness its backbone, then pungency is the spark—the wild card, the unexpected friend who barges in with boldness and refuses to be ignored.

    Pungency shows up as that peppery kick in the back of your throat, the fiery tickle that makes you cough once, twice, maybe even three times. Tasters call them “one-cough, two-cough, three-cough oils,” and they’re a badge of honor, proof that the oil is fresh, vibrant, and brimming with health-giving polyphenols.

    At first, pungency can feel like too much. It’s intense, abrupt, even overwhelming—like meeting someone new who speaks a little too loudly or laughs a little too hard. But give it a chance, and suddenly you realize: this is the spark you didn’t know you needed. The one who wakes you up, brings energy to the room, and makes the experience unforgettable.

    Without pungency, olive oil would be flat, missing its fire. With it, the oil feels alive—balanced, bold, and complete. That cough isn’t a flaw; it’s a feature. It’s nature’s way of saying: this oil is working, this oil is real.

    In life, too, pungency teaches us that first impressions aren’t always the final story. Sometimes the things—or people—that challenge us at the start end up becoming the ones we value most. The spark becomes the anchor, the jolt becomes the joy.

    So the next time an olive oil makes you cough, don’t shy away. Smile, and welcome it. That fiery finish isn’t just flavor—it’s friendship. It’s the reminder that what startles us today may one day become the part of life we can’t imagine living without.

    Suzanne, The Olive Oil Gal

  • Bitterness, Reconsidered

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    We spend so much of life avoiding bitterness. In food, in memories, in relationships—we equate bitter with unpleasant, something to be pushed aside. But in the world of olive oil, bitterness is not something to fear. It’s something to savor, even to learn from.

    Olives are born bitter. You can’t pluck one off the tree and eat it—it will make you pucker and spit. Yet from that bitterness comes one of the world’s greatest gifts: extra virgin olive oil. Pressed and pure, it carries with it a depth of flavor that is proof of its vitality.

    That sharp, green, almost biting taste on your tongue? It’s the polyphenols—the antioxidants that protect both the fruit and us. They are nature’s signpost of strength. The more bitter the oil, the more alive it is, the more protective it becomes.

    I often think of bitterness as a teacher. Just as oil without bitterness tastes flat, life without its own difficult edges would be shallow. It is often the moments we resist—the sharp conversations, the disappointments, the losses—that end up giving us resilience, balance, and appreciation for sweetness when it comes.

    In an olive oil tasting, I encourage people not to shy away from the bitterness. Instead, lean in. Notice the way it reveals layers of green almond, artichoke leaf, even dandelion greens. Let it linger. Let it open you to complexity.

    Bitterness reminds us that not everything meant for us will feel easy at first. Often, the flavors we resist are the very ones that nourish us most deeply.

    So the next time you taste a bold, bitter oil, remember: it’s more than flavor—it’s a philosophy. Olive oil shows us that bitterness isn’t an ending, but a beginning—the first step toward depth, strength, and balance.

    Suzanne, The Olive Oil Gal

  • The Beauty of Fruity

    When most people hear the word fruity, they think of apples, citrus, or maybe a bowl of berries. But in the world of extra virgin olive oil, fruitiness has a very different—and very special—meaning.

    Olive oil is, at its heart, a fruit juice. Pressed from fresh olives, it captures the essence of the fruit itself. When we talk about fruitiness in olive oil, we’re describing the aromas and flavors that remind us the oil came directly from a living, breathing fruit tree.

    Some oils are grassy and green, with hints of artichoke, tomato leaf, or fresh-cut herbs. Others lean toward ripe fruit, with softer notes of apple, banana, or stone fruit. A truly well-made oil often balances both—the vibrant “green” freshness and the mellow “ripe” sweetness—making the tasting experience layered and alive.

    When I lead tastings, I always ask people to smell first, taste second. The fruitiness hits your nose before your tongue: it’s the fragrance that rises when you warm the glass in your hands, the first impression that sets the stage for bitterness and pungency to follow.

    Fruitiness isn’t about sugar or sweetness. It’s about vibrancy. It’s the quality that makes an oil feel fresh, youthful, and bursting with life. Without fruitiness, an olive oil feels flat and lifeless. With it, the oil comes alive—transforming a simple drizzle over greens, grains, or grilled fish into something remarkable.

    I often say: bitterness and pungency show you an oil’s strength, but fruitiness shows you its soul.

    So the next time you swirl a spoonful of extra virgin olive oil, close your eyes and breathe in. What fruitiness do you find there? Green tomato? Almond? Apple peel? Each whisper tells the story of the olive’s journey—from grove to press to bottle to your table.

    Suzanne, The Olive Oil Gal

  • Rooted

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    The first time I found my way to Hilton Head Island, I was thirty-two and sick with a stubborn case of bronchitis. I slept fourteen hours that first day, twelve the next — my body refusing everything but rest. By the third morning, I willed myself upright and slowly walked the two short blocks to the beach path. It was October, locals’ summer on Hilton Head — the most glorious time of year, when the island feels as if it belongs only to those who love it most.

    Each day after, I walked a little farther, as though the island itself were coaxing me forward. One afternoon I waded into the cool Atlantic, the salt water shocking me awake, the horizon stretching forever. And then, without even meaning to, I whispered it out loud: Hilton Head is healing me.

    That phrase lodged itself deep inside me. For twenty-five years that memory became a kind of mantra, surfacing in moments of joy and heartbreak, in times of renewal and loss. Again and again, the island mended what felt broken.

    So when a long relationship ended and I found myself at my most lost, I knew where to go. Hilton Head wasn’t just a place I had vacationed. It was where I had written my book, and where some of my most treasured memories lived. If there was anywhere I could begin again, it was here.

    I moved with the hope of planting roots in the place that had always offered refuge. But starting over in your fifties is no easy thing. I had spent close to forty years as a designer — publishing, branding, web projects, deadlines stacked like bricks. And now, suddenly, I was working remotely, far away from family and friends — my support network. The days passed quietly, without shape, without connection. I was here, in the very place that had always healed me — yet I was alone.

    Eventually I realized healing doesn’t happen in isolation. It requires connection. It requires people.

    That’s when I found the olive oil store.

    At first, I thought retail would be a small diversion — something to fill my weekends, a way to step outside the four walls of my home. Selling bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar seemed as far from design and publishing as I could imagine. I had no retail background, no experience behind a counter. But I had curiosity. And beneath that, I had a quiet hunger to belong.

    From my first day, I discovered the work wasn’t just about transactions. It was also about conversations. Customers came in curious and often a little uncertain — What does a “high-phenolic” oil taste like? What’s the difference between a 25-year and 18-year aged balsamic? Sometimes they were locals. Other times they simply wandered in while on vacation, drawn in by the shimmer of silver fustis lined in neat rows.

    We talked about olive oil, yes, but we also talked about everything else. About their families, their travels, the dishes they were planning for dinner. We swapped recipes. We compared favorite restaurants. Sometimes they confided things that had nothing to do with food at all: illnesses, marriages, the small griefs and delights of everyday life. These conversations poured out like oil from a cruet — sometimes in a careful trickle, sometimes in a generous stream. Always enough to connect us.

    And as they did, something shifted in me.

    I began to see myself mirrored in the very product I was selling. Olive oil is born of patience and pressure. The fruit is crushed, pressed until its essence is revealed — bitterness and fruitiness, pungency and brightness, all suspended together in gold. It is the blending that makes it whole.

    That was me, too. Pressed by loss, reshaped by circumstance, I was finding a new balance. Every customer who walked in was like another drop added to the blend — laughter, stories, shared humanity mixing into something richer than I could have created alone.

    Hilton Head had healed me first through October skies and ocean air. Now, it was healing me again through people. The olive oil store was no mere job. It was a lifeline — a space where conversation and community could flow as easily as oil into a bowl, ready to be dipped and shared.

    There were afternoons when I’d look around and think: This is what it means to belong. Not in a grand, sweeping sense, but in the small, everyday exchanges that stitch us back together when we’ve come undone.

    My work was rooted in olive oil — in its flavors, its stories, its place at the table. But over time, I saw how those bottles carried more than food; they carried opportunities to share, to teach, to connect in ways that gave the work its shape and purpose.

    Hilton Head has saved me again and again, in ways both quiet and profound. First with the sea, later with its people. Healing, I’ve learned, doesn’t come all at once. It comes in steps — one walk farther down the beach, one conversation across a counter, one new root finding its way into soil.

    And sometimes, it comes in a whisper that becomes a rhythm — the tide against the shore, the press of the olive, the sound of a life being poured anew.

    Suzanne, The Olive Oil Gal

  • Greek chickpea salad with balsamic pickled red onions

    I have a confession: this Greek Chickpea Salad is my absolute favorite. I make it several times a week, and it’s just as perfect for a quick solo lunch as it is for sharing at the table. Simple, vibrant, and endlessly satisfying, it’s also one of the biggest crowd-pleasers at my Mediterranean diet classes.

    Chickpeas—like most beans—are true superfoods. They’re packed with protein and fiber, and they support everything from blood sugar balance to cholesterol management to inflammation. When you pair them with a high-quality extra virgin olive oil, the benefits multiply—delicious proof that healthy food can be full of flavor and joy.

    This salad brings it all together: creamy chickpeas, crisp vegetables, briny feta, and the bright lift of balsamic-pickled red onions. It’s fresh, colorful, and deeply nourishing—Mediterranean eating at its best.

    DRESSING

    SALAD

    • 3 cups chickpeas, drained and rinsed
    • 2 cups mixed yellow and red grape tomatoes, halved
    • ½ English cucumber, diced
    • ½ cup White Balsamic Pickled Red Onions
    • ½ cup kalamata olives, pitted and halved
    • 1/2 cup crumbled feta
    • ½ cup chopped fresh parsley
    • ¼ cup chopped fresh dill
    • ¼ cup chopped fresh mint, plus whole mint leaves for garnish

    In a large bowl, whisk together the olive oil, balsamic, lemon juice, garlic, mustard, salt, and several grinds of pepper.

    Add the chickpeas, tomatoes, cucumber, pickled onions, feta and olives and toss to coat. Toss in the parsley, dill, and mint.

    Season to taste, garnish with fresh mint leaves, and serve.

    Delicious with orzo, quinoa or couscous.

    BALSAMIC PICKLED ONIONS

    • 1 small red onion
    • 1 cup Premium Gold White Balsamic
    • 1 cup water
    • 1 tablespoons sea salt
    • 1 garlic cloves
    • 1/2 teaspoon peppercorns
    • Thinly slice the onions, then place in a 16-oz. jar.
    • Add the garlic and peppercorns.

    Heat the Premium Gold White Balsamic, water, and salt in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a quick boil , then let cool and pour over the onions. Set aside to cool to room temperature, then store the onions in the fridge.

    Your pickled onions will be ready to eat once they’re bright pink and tender – about 1 hour for very thinly sliced onions, or overnight for thicker sliced onions. They will keep in the fridge for up to 2 weeks.

  • Salt Air & Second Chances

    I didn’t come to the Lowcountry looking for a new career—but the tides had other plans.

    After thirty years in the fast-paced world of publishing and graphic design—logos, deadlines, late nights—I found myself craving something quieter, slower, more rooted. When a long chapter in New York closed, I packed my bags and landed on Hilton Head Island with nothing but a suitcase, a broken heart, and a deep love of food.

    What I found here was more than just a place to start over. I found salt air, soft mornings, and the kind of stillness that invites transformation.

    I also found olive oil.

    What began as a simple weekend job at a local olive oil and balsamics shop soon unfolded into something far greater—a calling. I fell in love with every facet of true extra virgin olive oil: its craftsmanship, its culture, its history, its flavor, its authenticity. What started as curiosity deepened into passion, and that passion carried me through study, tasting, and training until finally, I became an Olive Oil Sommelier.

    Along the way, I realized olive oil wasn’t just changing my work—it was changing me. Each bottle carried lessons about patience, resilience, and balance. Just as an oil reveals its character through fruitiness, bitterness, and spice, I began to see my own life with new layers of depth and possibility. What started as a career shift became a personal transformation, one that continues to unfold at the table and beyond it.

    This blog is a love letter to that new life—poured with purpose. It’s a collection of recipes, stories, and unforgettable characters, woven together with lessons in resilience, joy, and growth. The flavors are inspired by the Mediterranean way of eating—fresh, simple, vibrant—but grounded in the spirit of the Lowcountry: humble ingredients, generous hospitality, and a reverence for what grows close to home.

    At its heart, this blog is about more than cooking; it’s about how olive oil can nourish a table, spark connection, and remind us that reinvention—like good flavor—takes time, courage, and a little bit of soul.

    If you’ve ever wondered what happens when a New York designer follows her gut to the Carolina coast and discovers a life steeped in flavor—this is it. So come on in. Pour something good. And stay awhile.

    Suzanne, The Olive Oil Gal