“And what does a pretty lady need with this much olive oil?” he asked, sliding the giant jugs to the counter.

The cash register beeped.  $33.99 (1), (2).

I’m making soap, I told him, and smiled a little, choosing to ignore the pretty lady comment, since I’d just watched him flirt with the ancient woman who’d checked out before me.  He’d called her pretty, too, and I know a schtick when I see one.

“Soap!” It was more of a bellow than an exclamation.  Maybe a little of both.  “Soap with this oil?  This is good oil, for the eating, not for the cleaning!”

I told him that it’d make better soap then.  The kind I could give to only the people I like a lot, instead of the regular stuff that was from inferior oil.

He laughed.  Got a box for the three-gallon-jugs, and told me stories of Palestine.  Of places where they make Nabulsi in the traditional way, with only olive oil and water and lye, cured on slabs of concrete that have been worn smooth by the curing soap.  Slabs as big as a house. Cut, by hand, into rough-looking bars that are so mild and natural that you can use them on your hair.

I watched his eyes while he spoke.  The way they softened and shone with pride.  It’s the best soap in the world, he said, and touched my hand.   You make that kind of soap?

I shook my head.  I fancy mine up with avocado oil and cocoa butter and colors and scented oils.

He patted my hand.  Whatever you make, it’s keeping you beautiful.  Don’t change a thing.

The young man behind the deli counter rolled his eyes.  I laughed and followed him to the car, as he insisted carrying the sixteen pounds of extra virgin olive oil for me.

And all the way back, I thought of seas of white, uncut soap on concrete, and tradition, and the tiny connections that make a place home.