I wasn’t expecting a personal crisis. I just wanted a salad. Nothing fancy: just juicy tomatoes, fresh cucumbers, garbanzo beans, and a little shaved parm. The kind of meal that feels light but satisfying, like you're doing something good for yourself without trying too hard.
But when I opened the fridge, and reached for a bottle of dressing... I froze.
What even is in this stuff?
Here I was, holding a bowl of fresh ingredients—actual, vibrant food—and I was about to drown it in a mystery potion with thirty ingredients, half of which I couldn’t pronounce. It felt wrong. Like putting gas station cologne on a bouquet of fresh roses.
Without thinking twice, I tossed the bottle straight into the trash. I immediately thought of my time in Italy—how dressing meant one thing and one thing only: olive oil and balsamic. Ranch? Get outta here, I mumbled in my best Brooklyn accent. Italians don’t play that game.
So I grabbed my bottle of olive oil—some random brand with a vaguely Italian-looking label—and then I paused again.
Wait… where does this even come from?
That was the moment it started. The obsession. The spiral. The deep, soul-searching olive oil rabbit hole I never saw coming.
I’ll admit it: I used to pick my olive oil based on vibes. A pretty bottle. A name that sounded Italian. Something that looked rustic enough to fool me into believing it was high-quality. Which is ridiculous, because I’ve been to Italy. I’ve tasted the real stuff. But somewhere between work, life, and just trying to get dinner on the table, I stopped paying attention.
But lately, I’ve been on this whole real food kick—trying to be intentional, to stop being gaslit by packaging and grocery store marketing.
Which is how I found out the hard truth: not all olive oil is created equal.
A lot of the olive oil sold in the U.S. is… well, it’s a lie. It’s often a blend—olives from multiple countries mashed together to create a “consistent flavor” and keep costs low. Sure, it’s good enough for basic cooking. But flavor-wise? Nutrient-wise? It’s the olive oil version of fast fashion. Convenient, cheap, and stripped of anything unique.
I never realized how numb it was making my taste buds.
Meanwhile, over in Italy—especially in regions like Puglia—olive oil is alive. It’s emotional. It’s a story. A love affair, even. (Okay, that may be dramatic, but if you’ve ever tasted freshly pressed Coratina olive oil, you get it.)
There, producers care about origin. They focus on single-origin or regional blends. That means the olives come from one specific place—grown under the same sun, from the same soil. They aren’t shipping olives across the world just to blend them into some mystery mash. It’s deliberate. It’s rooted. It’s art.
And let me tell you, as someone with Italian blood running through my veins, I’ve never felt so proud.
Puglia produces some of the most flavorful, nuanced oils you’ll ever taste. The Coratina olive? Bold. Peppery. Hits you right in the back of the throat—in a good way. The Ogliarola olive? Smooth, buttery, slightly nutty. Each one has its own personality, like different wine varietals.
This isn’t just “cooking oil.” It’s something you sip straight from the spoon just to savor it.
In Italy, the process from harvest to bottle happens fast. Short supply chains. Intentional timelines. Strict quality standards. This means the oil you’re getting is fresh—not months or years old by the time it reaches your kitchen. And that matters. A lot.
Because the health benefits we associate with olive oil—those magical antioxidants and polyphenols that fight inflammation and protect your heart? They break down over time. So if your oil is old, poorly stored, or overly processed, you’re not getting the good stuff. You’re just getting… oil.
So I ditched the dressings and went back to basics. And somewhere along the way, I became an olive oil snob.
Not in a pretentious way—okay, maybe a little—but mostly because I’ve tasted the difference. And I’ve felt the difference. My food tastes better. My body feels better. I feel like I’m actually honoring the ingredients I buy, instead of smothering them with something fake.
When I choose olive oil now, I know where it comes from. I know who made it. And honestly, I’d rather give my money to a family-run Italian farm that cares about tradition than a giant food corporation selling me shelf-stable lies.
That salad I was making? Yeah, it deserved better. Bottled dressings are basically lies in cute packaging—packed with junky ingredients that totally ruin the whole “look at me, I’m being healthy” moment.
So I went back to basics. Just olive oil.
