August 30, 2010
I have met the enemy, and he is the cannolo. Not just any old cannolo, but the heart-stopping, moan-inducing ones at Trattoria Al Molo in Donnalucata, on the southern shores of Sicily. I’d like to die eating one of their cannoli. Does this make sense?
What words can describe it? When you sink your teeth through the crispy-light crust, an orange-flower-infused ricotta comes bursting forth, perfuming your entire mouth. Your eyelids grow heavy and you sway like the sea. Even days later, I’m crazy mad with the memory.
This cannolo is slim and delicate, unlike the pipe-bomb cannoli you find in Brooklyn, or Palermo. And by the way, do you know how the cannolo got its name? The dough used to be molded around canna, cane (reeds) such as these.
Sicilian cannoli once protected against evil spirits and symbolized fertility. Now they have their own Facebook page. Hal Licino claims that Sicily’s best cannoli are found on the western end of the island, calling EuroBar in tiny Dattilo near Trapani the “Ultimate Altar of Cannolidom.” Hal, have you never been to Donnalucata?
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PS At Al Molo (an unchic place, 0932-937710) sample the razza alla stemperata (sweet and sour stingray). You know what to order for dessert.
 Chef at Al Molo Click to comment.
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August 25, 2010
Who’s that man with the sweet-smelling basil bouquet?
It’s Ciccio Sultano, local hero, 2-Michelin-star chef at Ibla’s Duomo restaurant! But wait, what’s that strappy thing hanging around his person? Could it be … a purse?
In Sicily, they call them manbags. La borsa, gender feminine, is Italian for “purse.” Men shied away from carrying anything girly-sounding, so they quick coined a new word, il borsello, he-bag.
They’re all the rage. Yesterday I was last in a “line” of five at the post office, and everyone had a purse. (I was the lone woman, pity I had no camera.) It’s curious how what was once taboo has become legitimate, thanks to Italy’s virile soccer players who started the trendy trend.
You can carry a manbag for a stroll in town…
… or for a romp on the beach as fashion accessory to your Speedo.
 
Pretty figo (cool), eh? What do you think they keep in there?
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August 19, 2010
I’m furnishing my home with trash.
The orange trash guys drop by on a daily basis. One day they’ll cart away secco, dry stuff. The next day it’s umido, wet stuff. Another day it might be plastica or carta or lattine. I still can’t figure out what the last thing is. To make matters worse, each kind of rubbish must be tightly wound up in a different-hued bag: lava-black for secco, pistachio-green for umido, and so on. I don’t expect to ever really catch on to a system that’s as complicated, in its own way, as Sicilian codes of honor.
But all that’s beside the point. What matters is not the debris they haul away from the house, but what they bring in. Last week one of them, eyes ablaze, said, “I hear you like old stuff, Signora.”
“You heard right, Signore.”
“Well, I have a piece of an old Sicilian cart. Do you want it?”
I took it, of course, along with his picture in the too-bright sun.
Then the next day along comes this: a rusted grinder, still smelling seductively of caffè.
So we’re in business, me and the garbage guys. Will the house soon look like a moldering antiques bazaar?
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August 15, 2010
Love has no uttermost, as the stars have no number and the sea no rest.
Eleanor Farjeon
 
Morning has broken, water-soft, love-silent.
But in a few hours a tangle of nut-brown limbs and blue umbrellas and flip flops will storm these sands. “I Wanna Be a Macho Man” will come crashing, throbbing, tumbling across the waves all the way to Malta, all the way to Africa. Happy Ferragosto to all!
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Do you have a favorite photo of a pair on the beach? Please send and I’ll post it here.
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Thank you to Lucy Christie, who sent in these photos:
 Daughter, Copyright Lucy Christie
 Two Chairs, Lake Huron, Ontario: Photo by Lucy Christie Click to comment.
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August 10, 2010
Where I come from, junk food is considered a major food group and obesity a national emergency. Italians make fun of our junk-food fetish, calling us—kind of cruel, don’t ya think?—culoni, big butts.
Italians believe they’re eating a healthy Mediterranean diet. Take a look in an Italian hypermarket, though, and you’ll see aisles brimming with made-in-Italy junk food.
But why in blazes do nearly all the packages bear American names? Can it be that Italians refuse to sully their own bella lingua by putting it on stuff that clogs arteries and fattens fannies?
 These'll make you whistle Dixie  As in Yonkers, NY?  Kind of wacko, don't you think?  Named after the Fonz?  Only a hipster can appreciate a Cipster (pronounced Chipster) 
 I love this! They stick the Italian plural ("i") onto an English word PS: I hope you appreciate these photos–Supermarket Security made me beg for permission from Store Manager, who looked at me like I was some sort of crazy blogger.
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My Tourist Tips for Southeast Sicily
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