The first morning in Israel, the phone rang in our hotel room in Haifa.

"Hello?"

"Andrea, this is Shimon Sharon." Shimon and his wife Zehava are the parents of our friend Eran. Eran, his wife Tamar and their three daughters are the primary reason for our second family trip to Israel in 18 months. After exchanging pleasantries, Shimon gets down to business.

"Would you like a tour of a modern olive oil press? I have arranged one for tomorrow. Drive and meet me in Nazareth."

Through the chilly, drizzly morning air, we follow Shimon and Eli Cohen, an olive grower, to the olive press plunked down in a congested area of private homes, car mechanics, small olive groves, light industry, chickens and goats. For two hours, Eli gives us an impressive explanation of the history, horticulture, and botany of olives, steps used to harvest and to process the olives, and an olive oil tasting. Unbelievably, Anna and Sydney listen intently.

A few days later, we find ourselves dodging large semi trucks as we wind through an industrial park with no street signs on the edge of the Port of Haifa. John is driving, I’m navigating with an Avis Rental Car map, and the girls are groaning in the back seat. We are in search of the Israel Olive Oil Industry Museum that John found on a Haifa tourist map. Given the olive’s prominence in Israel, it seems ironic that no Israeli we encounter seems to have heard of the museum. What’s more, the museum doesn’t answer their phone or have a website, but John is determined. The "X" on the map leads us to the front gate of an unassuming factory.

I walk into the office where my rudimentary Hebrew gets me nowhere. A phone call is made and a few minutes later, an English-speaking young man shows up who looks surprised that we are adamant about seeing the olive oil museum. No wonder, considering the great lengths they must go to avoid any publicity for the museum!

We follow him past fork lifts, grain elevators, and modern factories to a quaint stone building. As luck would have it, a group of pensioners is just finishing up a tour; we can go in and lead ourselves out of the factory grounds when we are done. Nearly everything is in Hebrew, but gratefully John is able to lead us through a description of the ancient presses and the many photos that tell the modern history of the importance of olive oil to the Israeli economy.

The next week, Hanukkah begins. Each night on Moshav Matta, where Eran and his family live, we experience the holiday Israeli style—lighting the hanukkiyot (some of which are oil lamps), singing, and of course, eating. We sample toothsome Moroccan-style doughnuts dusted with course sugar, traditional jelly-filled sufganiyot, and potato and sweet potato levivot (latkes), definitely consuming our share of oil.

On a crisp, clear Moshav Matta morning with our trip drawing to a close, we set out with Eran and his daughters to harvest the last of their olive crop. Though the harvest takes place in October, Eran saved a few trees with low branches for our visit. With olive rakes and buckets in hand, we climb the fence into the grove of more than 1,000 olive trees. Just as we had seen depicted in ancient drawings, we happily begin plucking the olives from the trees and listen as they plunk into the buckets. The sun warms our backs, the dark blue sky contrasting with the silvery olive foliage and the golden hills. Soon our buckets are full.

That evening, Eran beckons us outside. It is time to crush and squeeze the olives. By lantern light, Eran spills the washed olives onto a marble slab. We take turns whacking at the olives with rocks and bricks to split the flesh and crack the pits. This is messy fun. Our hands are black with the juices. Then, we put the crushed olives into a clean, white sheet, twisting it into a tight rope. Sure enough, out drips a small amount of yellowish liquid into a pan. Eran pours the liquid into a bottle and after a few hours the oil, which had separated from the other liquid, can be separated into yet another bottle with a small vial set aside for us to take home.

We spend our last night in Israel, the sixth night of Hanukkah, at the home of Eran’s parents surrounded by his entire family. On a long table before a large window, a dozen hanukkiyot are set out. At the center of this dazzling display sits a clay hanukkiyah that Shimon fashioned that week to resemble the ancient oil lamps with a flame for each of his nine grandchildren. Into that hanukkiyah, Eran pours the fruits of our labor from the previous day. We say the blessings, light the many, many candles and pass the evening eating delicious food, spinning the sevivon (dreidel), watching the Hanukkah lights burn down, and listening to the ever-present discussion of current Israeli politics.

The next day was a long one, as we never really went to sleep the night before in anticipation of a 5:30 a.m. flight from Ben Gurion airport. By the time we arrive home, we are beyond tired. John lights the candles and quickly we are asleep. So, on the eighth night of Hanukkah, John sets up his new hanukkiyah, carefully pours the precious vial of hand-picked, hand-crushed, and hand-squeezed olive oil and sets in the wicks. Together as a family, we light all the wicks, say the prayers and behold the gorgeous flames, each of us quietly reflecting on the past two weeks: The Olive Oil Odyssey.