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The Stone Mill of Puglia
Mateo leaned his weight against the iron winch, straining to turn the gears of the granite mill while rain lashed against the cracked glass of the cellar door. Fifty crates of freshly picked Coratina olives were stacked along the damp limestone wall, their glossy dark skins damp with autumn moisture. If the fruit sat unpressed for more than twenty-four hours, fermentation would begin, destroying the low acidity and peppery finish that made the hillside grove famous.
The cooperative press down in the valley had closed its gates at noon after flash floods washed out the gravel access road. That left only the farm's antique stone press, a machine that had not ground an olive since Mateo's grandfather worked the terraces fifteen years earlier.
"The leather drive belt is cracked," said Don Carmine, his eighty-year-old neighbor, shining a battery lantern over the gears.