Oliver Story

Long ago, tucked away in a quiet village among soft, rolling hills, lived a man named Mr. Oliver. The kind of village where mornings arrived with the scent of dew on stone, and evenings slipped in with a hush of wind through old trees. It was the sort of place that never made it onto maps, but was never forgotten by those who passed through.

Mr. Oliver was a peculiar sort of gentleman, not in dress or manner, but in his devotion to one thing: olives. Not just any olives, mind you. He knew them by feel, by scent, by the way the skin gave just slightly under his thumb. While others saw fruit, he saw something finer—something that held stories, seasons, even a kind of truth. His olive oil was known far and wide, not just for its golden richness, but for the care and quiet reverence with which it was made. He believed, quite simply, that the soul of life could be found in honest things. And for him, that soul resided in olives.

But it wasn’t only olives that captured his attention.

One particularly crisp autumn, as the leaves turned and the light grew softer, Mr. Oliver began working with pomegranates, heavy, crimson things that stained the fingertips and burst with flavour. From them, he crafted what would become his most beloved creation: Pom Drizz. A thick, tangy pomegranate molasses, unlike anything people had tasted before.

Word of it spread slowly at first a jar passed to a neighbour, a spoonful at a village gathering — but soon it was everywhere. They called it Nature’s Candy. It found its way onto fresh bread, into stews, over desserts, and sometimes, simply onto a spoon.

People didn’t just like it. They remembered it. And long after Mr. Oliver had disappeared back into the quiet rhythm of his village, Pom Drizz remained — a little bottle of warmth, depth, and something quietly remarkable.