My father loved greek olives but not just any kind. He loved the wrinkly, oily, greasy ones; what I now know to be called Sicilian Oil Cured Black Olives. He used to get those and a big expensive can of good olive oil when he made his famous sub sandwiches with green peppers, onions, provolone, salami and “capicola”. It was a fancy day when he made them; we were a typical American sliced cheese family that never got provolone cheese any other time. It always meant he was in a great mood and we would be in a great mood too, because we children loved those sandwiches like he did. Mine would be dripping with olive oil because he knew I loved olive oil. On Fridays, fish day in a Catholic household, he would get Long John Silvers for himself and my mom and they would sit in their barcaloungers with their TV trays and tall beer cans and watch a TV movie my mom had recorded. If someone was sick or sad they got poached eggs on toast. Poached eggs still make me feel better if I’m sick.

My father was the first person who taught me about loving someone through food. He passed away 22 years ago this month. Last week I found some olives my dad would have loved and I’ve been putting them on everything. Each time I eat one I’m reminded of how my dad fixed my sub sandwich just the way I liked. I have never eaten a sub sandwich as good as those made by my dad. He told me when I was little that those olives were “cured” and I thought that was a good name for them since they seemed to cure just about anything bothering me at the time and they still do.