In case you haven’t happened upon this fact, I’m here to tell you: There’s nothing quite as polarizing as black olives.

Some people love them. And I mean LOVE. To the point they’ll steal them off of your plate. While others … well, we won’t steal them back.

My introduction to black olives was back in the mid 1960s. Each Friday, Mom packed up the kids and we headed to Adams Super Market. It was a huge store, for the ’60s anyway.

Adams had everything you could possibly need, and even some things you didn’t know you needed.

Like a black olive machine.

What a glorious thing it was! It was in the first aisle, the wide one with lots of displays. There it was, on a table with the sign touting Free Sample! for all to see.

At first we couldn’t really make out what it was, as there was a pack of unsupervised kids crowding around it.

Oh, how I wish I could find a photo of that magical machine! But after several hours of searching online, using every descriptive word that came to mind, I’m convinced it doesn’t exist.

Sidenote: One of those descriptive words was “sampler.” Here’s what popped up:

Another search, using the words “vintage” and “dispenser,” netted this:

I’ll do my best to describe the thing: It was a cross between a huge gumball machine and a carnival “bear claw” game.

It was self-serve. A sampler machine. If you try a yummy black olive for free, you’ll buy a jar, right?

Brilliant marketing concept.

The thing is, the only ones interested seemed to be the kids. And they weren’t in it for the olives, they liked fiddling with the contraption.

The kids scattered as we approached. I noticed there were numerous unchewed olives in the little trash can under the table. And some had missed the waste receptacle altogether. Lesson learned: Black olives roll.

Mom quickly told my brothers and me we could each try the machine exactly once. BUT … we then had to eat the black olive. There would be no waste.

We quickly tried to charm her with our selflessness, “But Mom, you love olives, don’t you? You can have mine!” But the rules were set.

When it was at last my turn at the machine, I maneuvered what in modern times might be called a joy stick. After a few false tries, I scooped the shiny olive and tilted the long spoon-like retrieval device so that the olive rolled down the chute and into my grubby little hand.

After one last hopeful glance at Mom, I popped the sample into my mouth.

And chewed.

And chewed and chewed and chewed.

Surely there’s a name for that phenomenon. That sensation that, no matter how much you chew, the item in your mouth isn’t going anywhere, because your swallow muscles refuse to engage.

I ain’t letting that down here. You got yourself into this mess. You’ll get no cooperation from me!

I kept chewing, valiently fighting off my gag reflex. With tears in my eyes, I even looked plaintively at Mom, who was highly empathetic in most cases. But not this time. It was a “life lesson” moment.

Swallow. You can do it.

And I did, silently vowing never again to be taken in by a fancy marketing scheme. I was five or six years old at the time.

Stop the presses! While meandering through yet another stack of family photos, I flipped this one over and it says: July 1956 Olives.

Fast forward to my days as editor at Pizza Today magazine. One of the perks of the job was free samples. On a regular basis, we’d receive cases of pizza sauce, bags of spice mixes, boxes of candy, and more. Although seemingly a generous gesture, the hope was we’d write about – and recommend – their product in our magazine.

Then one day, an unusually large box arrived. On my desk.

Black olives.

Can after can after can of black olives. Although the editor was meant to get first dibs of all samples, there were plenty to share. I lugged the cans to the break room and created a display, including a “Free To A Good Home” sign.

To set a good example, I took home a can. Turns out, Gary had never tasted a black olive, neither had his mom.

Turns out, they didn’t care for them either.

Then Gary had an idea. “Let’s see if the Tempels would like them!” His aunt Irene (one of his mom’s sisters), uncle Joe, and cousin Renie lived on a nearby farm. The three of them had amazing metabolisms and ate a tremendous amount of food, all the while remaining quite trim (I believe “scrawny” was the word Gary used, always with an admiring tone).

Years ago. we invited them to join us for Thanksgiving. This was long before reality TV challenges, but it felt like I’d achieved the ultimate goal when the Tempels finished their meals and pronounced themselves “full.”

Gary tells the story of how a buffet restaurant in Owensboro actually asked them not to come back. They just ate too much, including the profits.

The Tempels grew much of their own food. Their vegetable garden was huge, and provided friends and family with superior quality peas, beans, potatoes, and more.

Among other Old MacDonald’s Farm-esque animals, the Tempels kept a small herd of goats. The towering stacks of pancakes that greeted the menfolk daily following morning chores came enriched with fresh goat milk.

Irene (whom we called “Arn” for short) made sure nothing went to waste. She was the next step in our Free Black Olives tour.

Irene knew just what to do with the pesky things. She chopped them up and added them to that day’s soup. But … there was something about that texture, that taste. For the first time in their history, the Tempels turned down the opportunity for free food.

Gary loves a challenge. And he hates to waste food. So he asked everyone he knew if they liked black olives. It took a while, but he hit pay dirt with Tracy, the milk hauler.

Are you kidding – I love them!

With a slight shudder, Gary later relayed to me that Tracy opened the first can and popped a few black olives into his mouth, a look of sheer pleasure on his face.

“They went to a good home, that’s all that matters,” Gary told me. “He took every last can. We’re free!”

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