The Olive Oath

Our daughter loves olives -- pitted black or green olives right out of the can. When she was a toddler, I prepared her first burrito and as an enticing addition I placed a mound of olives on her plate. I went to the kitchen to assemble Maria's burrito and when I returned, Aleda had an olive on each of her fingers -- shiny E.T. pearls that she sucked from her fingertips like an epicure licking her fingers... delicacy by scrumptious delicacy. Subsequently, every single homemade burrito, maybe over a 100 since, has been supplemented with ten olives -- always ten olives. Through preschool, through grade school, never a word about it, always expected, always delivered, always on her finger tips, always sucked down in the same fashion. She stopped a few years ago -- I remember the evening and I remember wanting to say something -- but I never stopped placing ten olives on her plate. This evening, she looked at her plate and said, "Can't break tradition tonight. Not tonight," and I didn't. Tonight she ate a burrito and ten olives. Next time, the same; and the same after that. Some changes are worth resisting. [Despite her hands being too big and despite the idea that her father would be sharing this anecdote, she allowed one pic for old time's sake.]