A Morning at the Lebanese Olive Press

As dawn threaded through the Chouf Mountains, I wandered into a sun-baked courtyard where the air hummed with the earthy scent of cured olives and the rhythmic grind of a stone mill. Sunlight filtered through ancient olive trees, casting dappled shadows on baskets heaped with glossy fruit—their skins ranging from emerald to obsidian, heavy with morning dew. A farmer in a linen shirt emptied a basket into the mill, his weathered hands guiding olives into the grooved stone. "Our family has pressed oil here since the Phoenicians," he said, as the mill began to rumble.

Near the clay jars, a woman in a vibrant headscarf decanted oil into copper jugs, her movements precise as she sealed each with a wax stamp. I dipped a piece of flatbread into a bowl of fresh oil, its flavor peppery and bright, like the first sip of sunlight. A kitten napped on a pile of olive pits, its fur dusted with silvery leaves, while a donkey stood tethered to a hitching post, its ears twitching at the distant call of a muezzin. Somewhere in the distance, a grape arbor swayed, its tendrils heavy with ripening clusters.

The farmer handed me a small jar, its ceramic surface etched with olive branches. "This oil carries the mountain’s soul," he smiled, as sunlight spilled over a table set with labneh and za’atar. I ran my finger around the jar’s rim, feeling the rough texture of hand-molded clay, and watched as a bee landed on an olive flower, its legs sticky with golden pollen.

By mid-morning, the courtyard bustled with neighbors exchanging recipes and tourists marveling at the ancient press. I left with oil on my fingertips, reminded that in Lebanon, mornings are pressed from the patience of time—where every olive holds the sun’s fire, and every drop of oil is a prayer to the land that has nourished generations under the Levantine sky.