The Best Little Cakes in Sicily

March 7, 2010

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Run, don’t walk, amici, as fast as your little legs can carry you, to Caffè Sicilia. It’s in the magical town of Noto in southeast Sicily, home to Captain Mimo.

Caffè Sicilia is a humble place, old-fashioned and perfect. (Please, dear owners, resist the urge to Tuscanize.) It’s basically a sweet shop, blooming with cakes and puddings and ices.

Cakes at Caffe Sicilia, Noto, Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

Cakes and pastries at Caffe Sicilia, Noto, Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

Live with abandon. One, two, three cakes—who’s counting?

Marian Burros, in a 2005 New York Times article, called Caffè Sicilia’s Corrado Assenza a “mad genius” and the “most daring experimenter with the strong sweet and savory elements in Sicilian cooking.”  His ingredients are—among other things—bergamot, basil, saffron, fennel, honey, orange, jasmine, wild berries, citron, all of which he harmonizes in ways that delight and surprise.

We were a group of four. Among us, we’d ordered twelve cakes. After cramming our mouths, we sat back stunned and red-faced.

The next thing we know our server, a woman with a thick braid snakimg down her back like an old honeysuckle vine, trots out with a tray bearing 16 spoonfuls of marmalade.

“Guess the ingredients,” she says, “and you win a gelato.”

Marmalade at Caffe Sicilia, Noto, Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

We lick the pure dabs of goodness from each spoon, carrying on a hot debate. Bergamot? Citron-tobacco? Pistachio -fennel? Turns out we all fail miserably at this game. But we’re rewarded with ice cream anyway, “for playing with passion.”

After an experience like this, Sicily will take hold of you and never let you go.


Chocolate cake at Caffe Sicilia, Noto, Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

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Ode to Sicilian Women

March 3, 2010

You are bold and funny. Spicy and sweet. Kitchen goddesses; enthusiasts; enchantresses; fatalists; devotees of bambini, melodrama, and glee; believers in spirits and ghosts; possessors of thunderous hearts and skirts with fluted hems.

Vi voglio tanto bene!

Happy International Women’s Day (March 8)!

Trio of Sicilian Ladies

Sicilian BrideSiclian Woman Sicilian Woman Sicilian Women Sicilian Woman Sicilian Woman Sicilian WomanTrio of Sicilian Women Knitting Sicilian Woman Group of Sicilian Women Here’s to you, Siciliane! Salute!

cin cin, salute

Restoring a Damp House in Sicily, Part 3

March 1, 2010

The roof’s been fixed; the rain’s been staunched.

Old Terracotta Roof Tiles on a Sicilian House, copyright Jann Huizenga

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I turn my attention to the interior of the house.

Please find me some old stones, I implore. Vi prego. There must be stone under the many layers of plaster and wall tile. Let’s expose it!

“What do you need old stones for, anyway? asks the project manager, tossing his head impatiently. “If you want stone, we can put pietra finta, fake stone, on the walls.”

Fake stone? Could he be serious?

“It’ll be faster and cheaper than looking all over the house for old stone. It looks better, too.”

“But,” I wail, “I love old stuff! We don’t have old stuff in the Stati Uniti!!!! That’s why I’m in Sicily!”

I long to wrap history around me like a well-worn cape. Sicilians, having lived among ruins for millennia, want to shed the old cape for something flashier.

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A week or so later, I get a call in Rome. “Non c’e pietra.” There’s no stone.

I’m stunned.  This is an old Sicilian house. There has to be stone. Or have I managed to purchase the one and only stone-free house in all of Italy?

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There’s a new twist to the plot. My husband decides to travel from the U.S. to far-flung Ragusa Ibla to see for himself what’s going on. It’s the first time he and the house will meet—nearly a year after I’ve bought it—and I’m nervous. His interest in the project has not been keen. What’ll he think?

When he arrives at our mossy-smelling home late one afternoon, there’s rubble wherever you look. He wears a fixed frown and raises an eyebrow.

Then he hunts around for a tool. There’s nothing in the house but a vintage can opener. He climbs a ladder in the salone and starts scratching at the vaulted ceiling. He claws away with his rusty little can opener until fingers start to bleed.

“So who says there’s no pietra,” he yells from atop the ladder. “Look at this.”

Peeking through the plaster is a hint of beautiful stone.

Ceiling of a Sicilian house undergoing restoration, copyright Jann Huizenga

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He comes down from the ladder and steps onto the balcony with a wan smile. Plaster has settled into his hair. The sky is full of evening light; the bells toll as if they’re going mad. The small smile transforms into a dual-dimpled grin.

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San Giorgio Cathedral at dusk, Ragusa Ibla, Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

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Southeast Sicily’s Captain Mimo

February 25, 2010

I met him in the baroque town of Noto.

Sicilian man in Noto, copyright Jann Huizenga

His name was Domenico Sculli.

“Call me Mimo,” he said.

He spoke good English. “I was boat captain for 42 years. I know whole world. Japan, Australia, Siberia. I lived in South America. Only place I don’t know is China. I came back home for retire. But many friends already gone.”

“Are you happy to be back in Sicily?”

“Look!” he said, sweeping his hand through the air. “Noto is so beautiful!”

I nodded.

He pulled a photo from a worn leather wallet.

Sicilian man in Noto, copyright Jann Huizenga

“This is how I was forty years ago. You see I was very, very handsome.”

Sicilian man reading La Sicilia, copyright Jann HuizengaClick to leave a comment.

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Asparagus: A Story of Stalking and Snapping

February 16, 2010

Stalks of Wild Asparagus, copyright Jann Huizenga

Starting in February, Sicilians take to the hills and valleys to hunt for wild spring asparagus.

The first time I stalked asparagi was with a party of friends in a wildflower-strewn valley just beyond Ragusa Ibla. We were led into battle by my friend Gio’s father, Signor Battaglia, a tailor with a zeal for women and wild edibles.

Though the skinny spears grew waist-high, they weren’t easy to spot. They lurked in brambles and behind stone drystone walls. For several hours we rambled through the golden freshness playing a kind of Where’s Waldo with asparagus.

“Look! There are five right ahead of me,” Signor Battaglia would say. He’d stop dead in his tracks to let our eyes focus. But the flora was tangled and we were asparagus-blind. He’d scowl with mock impatience, then inch forward to tap each tender green shoot with the tip of his cane. We’d erupt in surprise, and someone would clamber over a rock wall or wade deep into the brush to pluck the tall spears with a satisfying snap.

When we’d collected enough wild food to feed a village, we headed back to the house to prepare lunch with our dewy ingredients.

I’ve written elsewhere about this meal and special man, Signor Battaglia, who for me is the incarnation of Sicilian joie de vivre.

I thought about him yesterday and started craving asparagus. Since I’m not in Sicily at the moment, I had to settle for stalking spears in the vegetable aisle at Trader Joe’s. I found some good organic skinny spears. I love asparagus best roasted, so here’s what I did:

1. Snap off woody ends.

2. Wash well  (store-bought variety can be gritty).

3. Put in baking dish and drizzle with olive oil.

4. Roast at 350 for about 15 minutes.

5. Grind coarse salt and pepper and add a little spritz of lemon if desired.

6. Serve at room temperature as an antipasto or hot as a side dish.

Roasted Asparagus with Wedge of Lemon, Copyright Jann Huizenga

Asparagus has health benefits galore: it clears urine (yup!); contains fiber that encourages digestion; and supports heart health thanks to folate, vitamin B, and the master antioxidant glutathione.

Do you forage for wild edibles? What do you do with asparagi?

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Here’s a link to a blogger in Italy  doing a series on wild edibles.


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