This is an olive press. One trip to Israel was during olive harvest. We saw the families out under their trees bashing the branches onto tarps on the ground.
Jane Ben Ari told us that the family kept the first pressing. It was the finest. It supplied them all year. The second pressing was sold to retailers for cash. The third pressing was used for soap and household lighting and other sundries. Washing with a handcrafted bar of olive oil soap is a luxurious thing. Soft clean. The bar lasts forever!
The seed is crushed along with the meat of the olive. There is a spout that the oil drips out of. The process is slow and tedious from start to finish. Steady, but slow. The oil must be stored properly to keep from becoming rancid.
Life revolves around this simple little orb. I remember fresh made hummus with first pressing olive oil drizzled on, scooped up with warm flat bread ~ oh my!
Old olive trees have hundreds of years of storied texture. Twists, gnarls, and thick, ugly trunks. They are a mainstay. A staple of life. Serious to a family's livelihood. Life giving.
Gethsemane means this very kind of pressing. The process seems to result in oil of gladness and blessing.