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December 25, 2010 Male bonding while waiting for mama or nonna to ready the Christmas spread:
En route to Christmas lunch:
Bella figura: Everyone dresses up in their best Christmas finery.
Postscript: This woman offered coffee and sweets to four strangers wandering the streets of her tiny village. Sicilians have truly mastered the arts of generosity and hospitality. Auguri! This was the word that echoed around the streets today. ***
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December 22, 2010 I walked out the door two nights ago and stumbled into candles and donkeys and music and straw. Jugs of wine and a vat of fresh ricotta. Why am I always the last one to know what’s happening in my village? It was a presepe vivente, a crèche come to life. Every village seems to have its own, starring locals as shepherds, washer women, and musicians. There’s another one here the day after Christmas, starring Jesus, Maria and Giuseppe.
x xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx x Buon Natale! *** Click here to subscribe to BaroqueSicily. December 20, 2010 Well, I never. My first Christmas in Sicily, and so many surprises! I found this pair wandering an empty piazza. They stopped so I could shoot them, but I didn’t dare interrupt the music to ask Who in blazes are you?
In Sicily, bagpipe-blowing shepherds traditionally come down from Mount Etna at Christmastime to play in the villages–sort of the Sicilian equivalent of Christmas carolers. Are these Zampognari real shepherds dressed up as Santa? Or faux shepherds trying to revive what many fear is a dying art? I’m not sure, but they blow a mean Christmas carol. *** Click here to subscribe to BaroqueSicily. November 2, 2010 A few years ago, I wanted to buy a ruin of a house on a solitary road out beyond the Ragusa cemetery. Sicilian friends (perfectly rational, well-educated ones) said I was matta, insane, that I’d be visited at night by dead souls. “What do you mean?” I hollered. “I live two blocks from a cemetery in the US and I’ve never seen a ghost!” They looked at me mournfully and insisted that the danger was real. They themselves would absolutely never pay me a visit there! So I gave up the idea of that house with its faded pink walls, shocked at how alive the dead are in Sicily. Sicilian cemeteries are always set well outside of town behind imposing walls. Below is the Scicli cemetery, full of mausoleums, magnificent pines and tall cypress.
Cemeteries here are well-tended, with custodians and on-site florists. They seem to be open most of the day, even during the long lunch break.
Many of the tombs show pictures of the dead.
Streets have names, just like in a real town.
Today is il Giorno dei Morti, Day of the Dead. Sicilian families flock to cemeteries—arms overflowing with lilies, mums, roses, and daisies—to spend time with their dearly departed.
October 18, 2010 I once saw my friend Giò drop a heel of bread on the floor. She scooped it up like it was a newborn chick and tenderly kissed it. “That’s what we do here in Sicily,” she laughed. “Bread is everything for us. Jesus is in the bread. It must always sit on its bottom, for example. And we never toss it away. That’s a sin.” “Well, what if it gets old?” “We make breadcrumbs from it. If it’s turning green with mold, we kiss it and apologize to Jesus.”
I once made Easter breads with an 86-year-old woman who’s never been off the island. She said a prayer as she popped the bread into the oven. To Saint Anthony, handsome and good. The angel passes and leaves his blessing, the angel passed and left his blessing. May the Ragusan bread rise as big as a field, may the country bread rise as big as a mountain. Saint Anthony is not the only person Sicilian women turn to for help with baking. Some pray to Saint Clement (“Let the bread not have a bubble!”) or directly to Mary and Jesus themselves. I didn’t dare tell my friend Giò that as kids we made spitballs with bread, or that as an adult I’ve carelessly trashed scores of half-eaten loaves. That would be the ultimate blasphemy here. *** What food do you revere? *** |
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