When I was a kid, almost the biggest treat at Thanksgiving was olives. Straight from the can. I still have an exploitable weakness for them, bizarre as they are in comparison to the kind sold from bacteria bars everywhere, because they are so junky (really, even Velveeta makes the best chile con queso). So I was actually looking forward to trying the new incarnation of California’s finest, proudly processed without artificial preservatives and water. The good news is that I can’t quote Biff Grimes’ immortal line “give me pesticides and flavor” with conviction, because they taste the same as they ever did. The bad news is that they have lost literally half their appeal. They are no longer shiny black but more matte (the polite way of saying shit) brown. And they certainly don’t gleam as tantalizingly when attached to fingertips. On pizza, they’ll look like mouse droppings. Even if they are labeled Colossal.