Harvesting Olives in Sicily: A First-Time Olive Oil Story
- Made al Dente
- Jul 2
- 3 min read
Updated: Jul 9
One October in Sicily, the simple act of harvesting olives became something sacred—a lesson in labor, time, and the taste of green gold.
It was October, and the sun still had teeth in Sicily.
Not summer’s brute force—not the kind that presses down and demands retreat—but a more insistent warmth. The kind that lingers on your neck and clings to the stones underfoot. The sky was unreasonably blue, the kind of blue that makes every olive leaf seem outlined in ink.
It was my first time harvesting olives. I had bought the house in Noto only the autumn before—a holiday home to escape Milan’s grey—and while I had walked among the trees a hundred times, admired the silver shimmer of their leaves and their slow, seasonal rhythm, I had never picked from them. Not properly. Not like this.
Nets stretched beneath the branches. Plastic crates stood at the ready. And two older local men—kind, no-nonsense—had come to show me how it’s done.
They didn’t explain much. They didn’t need to. They moved with the quiet rhythm of deep knowing—efficient, unfazed. One of them barely bent; he just shook the branches, sending olives down in a soft, even rain. The other combed the limbs with a rake, the long tines catching the fruit with clean, practiced sweeps. Their gestures were deliberate, economical. Mine were clumsy in comparison. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to earn it.
The olives themselves were small and dusty—nothing glossy or plump, not the kind you’d find on a charcuterie board. These were pressing olives. Dusty green. Purplish black.
Alive. Some trees gave generously. Others yielded just a handful. Still, we harvested them all.
The sound of olives dropping onto the canvas netting was oddly meditative—a soft patter, like rain on cloth. Occasionally broken by the scratch of the rake, or the rustle of branches falling back into place. It was quiet work. Honest work. You could feel it in your shoulders.
By afternoon, we had filled several bags. More than I’d expected. Not large—but full. And they were mine. I’d walked those trees through their first spring and summer under my watch. Checked them after windstorms. Watched the changing angle of the sun through their leaves. And now, I was holding their weight.
The scent stayed on my hands, no matter how many times I rinsed them: bitter, green, slightly metallic. The smell of effort. Of earth. Of arrival.
At the frantoio in Avola—the olive mill—it was another world entirely.
Mountains of olives filled crates the size of bathtubs. Conveyor belts clattered. Machines whirred and hissed. The air was sharp with the smell of crushed pits and raw oil. It was industrial and earthy all at once. Not beautiful, but completely absorbing.
I hesitated for a moment, looking at my modest bags beside the enormous hauls of others—families who’d been harvesting for generations, producers bringing in truckloads. But the man behind the counter simply took my name, nodded, and said, “Le facciamo subito.” We’ll do yours right away.
And then it began.
The olives were tipped gently onto a belt. Leaves and twigs were shaken free. Then washed, crushed, and cold-processed—a mechanical extraction at low temperature, the best method for preserving every drop of flavour, nutrients, and life. This wasn’t heat or haste. It was patience, designed to respect what the olives had to give.
The paste spun slowly, and then, as if conjured, the oil appeared—not yellow, but vivid green. Electric. Almost glowing. It ran in silky ribbons. Watching it felt like witnessing alchemy: fruit becoming liquid, bitterness transforming into gold.
There was no urgency. No rush. The pace of the machines mirrored the pace of the harvest—steady, unforced, generous. I watched every moment. Not out of anxiety, but reverence. From branch to belt, from net to tin—I wanted to witness the full arc. To honour it. All of it.
When it was done, they filled 10 silver tins. 50 litres in all. My olives. My oil.
Yes, others made more. Some brought in truckloads. But that oil? It tasted like something only I had ever tasted. I drizzled it over bread the moment I returned home. It was peppery, thick, wild—the kind of flavour that demands silence. That makes you pause. The kind that says everything about where it came from, without needing to explain.
Sometimes I still think about how small those bags looked in the warehouse. And how heavy they felt in my hands. How those silent olives—unassuming on the tree—had become something living. Something lasting.
Something more than I expected.
