A joyful sight: Brightly colored cloths spread beneath endless rows of olive trees, and women in headscarves bustling among the branches. Each tree has its own canvas where the small, bitter fruits, swollen with the season’s first rain, will fall.Every green olive bears a different shade on its skin — the oil is ready, it is time to harvest.The art lies in gathering without harming the tree or the fruit. The stems are combed gently between the fingers like strands of hair, an ancestral caress, a primal gesture of love.A light wooden rod is used to reach the higher branches, shaking them gently until the fruit comes down. And the treasure pours out.Then comes the sorting, always with care. Some baskets are for the firmest olives that will roll onto our tables until next season, served alongside labneh, sprigs of mint, manousheh and...
A joyful sight: Brightly colored cloths spread beneath endless rows of olive trees, and women in headscarves bustling among the branches. Each tree has its own canvas where the small, bitter fruits, swollen with the season’s first rain, will fall.Every green olive bears a different shade on its skin — the oil is ready, it is time to harvest.The art lies in gathering without harming the tree or the fruit. The stems are combed gently between the fingers like strands of hair, an ancestral caress, a primal gesture of love.A light wooden rod is used to reach the higher branches, shaking them gently until the fruit comes down. And the treasure pours out.Then comes the sorting, always with care. Some baskets are for the firmest olives that will roll onto our tables until next season, served alongside labneh, sprigs of mint, manousheh and...
