I grew up between two worlds — the hills of Elis, Greece, and the streets of New York. Every trip back home, friends in New York would ask the same thing: “Can you bring some olive oil from your village?” Sometimes it was honey, mountain oregano, or wild tea — but the olive oil always came first. Our family’s story began generations ago with my father and grandfather, who were sheep and goat herders. Scattered among the pastures were a few old olive trees that quietly produced small amounts of olive oil each year. What little we made, we shared — and every time I brought some back to New York, more people asked for it.