After visiting the Bussati linen factory, our next stop is the Ravagni Olive Oil factory—where the same family has been pressing olive oil on wicker discs since 1421. Definitely my favorite excursion of the week. Francesco explains the fascinating ancient process standing in front of the giant stone crusher in the mill. At Ravagni, they still use large wicker discs to press the oil, and nothing is automated. For centuries, local villagers have been bringing the olives harvested in their gardens here for pressing. In medieval days, the olive oil would be stored in earthenware jugs; today they leave with amber-colored bottles of the silky green liquid that is the basic building block of the Mediterranean diet.
As we follow him outside and up a narrow lane, my sandals crunch on the gravel as we approach the family’s buff-colored stone house nestled among the olive groves. Two long tables with lime green tablecloths have been set for lunch under the welcome coolness of ancient trees in the courtyard.
Our delectable three-course lunch has been prepared by Grandma Ravagni who wears a turquoise sweater over her sweet cotton dress on a day when the temperature is 98-degrees. In my broken Italian, I ask permission to take her picture. She sits on a wooden ladder-back chair in the shade of a giant tree and smiles sweetly at the camera. She bears such a striking resemblance to my own grandmother, down to the simple gold rings on her fingers and the way she clasps her gnarled hands on her lap.
Perhaps the setting in this country garden is similar to my grandmother’s ancestral home in Sicily. I blink back tears while taking this photograph which will become one of my favorites of the entire trip. There is something poignant about intersecting with one’s roots.
© Copyright 2012-2023. Lisa Scattaregia. All rights reserved.
Postcards from the road not taken 
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