December 9, 2015
When you get your university diploma in Italy, you are laureato (lau-ray-áh-toe), literally “crowned with laurel.” Some graduates still wear the bay leaf wreath, a tradition dating back to ancient Greece, when poets and scholars were so honored (thus “poet laureate” and Nobel Laureate”).
I found this laurel-bedecked graduate wandering the streets with his Botticelli maiden.
 When he saw my lens, he pulled her in for a smooch, Latin-lover style.
 Long live laurels. Long live love, lads and lasses. Evviva l’Italia.
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October 12, 2015
They’re natives of the Americas, the mean spiky fruits. But prickly pear cacti have flourished in Sicily’s climate. You have to dodge them here–they rise 20 feet tall and come at you from all directions. Lured by a poster, we decided yesterday to celebrate the fruit I fear.
 The sinister plants lined the roadway, the asphalt bloody with fallen fruit.
 They paid homage to the fruit in the tiny town of Pedagaggi. They ate it fresh, candied, mashed into marmalade, and cooked into mostarda— something like prickly pear gummy bears. They drank it in liqueur.
 In my early innocent days on the island, I bought several of the fruits and blithely peeled them, glove-less. For days afterwards my fingertips prickled with pain, as I sat in the sun pulling out ultra-fine spines with a tweezers. I have shunned the fruit since.
 This bearded fellow explained that his hands are so calloused from the fields he has no need for gloves. But his wife came well-equipped. Every Sicilian has a story about American GIs in WWII, who plucked the fruit right off the plant and bit into it. This makes them laugh.
Food festivals in Sicily always attract a biker crowd, clad in old denim and black leather. They’re always the life of the party.
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June 1, 2015
We just concluded our festa honoring the town’s patron, San Giorgio, who pranced around on his horse for 3 days amid much fanfare–rocket booms day and night, fireworks, tears, hollering, confetti, mobs, twinkle lights, tubas, drum beats. Tourists thought we were under attack and pigeons had heart attacks. As my Sicilian neighbor said, “It’s all a little exaggerated.”
I’ve written about the festival itself here, so now I’ll show you some shots from the crowd.
 “I used to carry San Giorgio on my shoulders, but now I’m too old,” he said  Balloon vendor: she made kids smile.  She has him and she wants to talk to someone else?  These poor guys deserved a break; they trudged up and down hills following San Giorgio for three days.  Padre & figlio.  Padre & figlio.  All waited with bated breath for San Giorgio’s final exit and stroll.  They had the absolute best view in the house. ********
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May 6, 2015
So I’m at the fruttivendolo, greengrocer’s, a charming hole-in-the wall.
I’m cooling my heels waiting my turn while the vendor and a customer with a nest of snow-white hair lament Italy’s problemi. Every so often the snow-white customer points to a cucumber or a pile of chicory, which the vendor oh-so-carefully picks up and weighs. Ten minutes pass. The two men are pretty riled up–hands flail all over the place–about the fact that Prime Minister Renzi got his electoral reform law (Italicum) passed. Will the right to strike be affected, they fret? Because Italy is a striking culture: teachers & pilots & baggage handlers & bus drivers & train operators & truck drivers & museum workers & taxi drivers walk off the job on a regular basis. You cannot take that away from the Italian 99%-ers, can you???
Anyway, the snow-white man finally shouts a hearty parting to one and all (Buona giornata e buon pranzo! Good day and good lunch!) and steps out the door, trailing a bag chock-full of chicory. I’m up next. Lemons, please! We engage in an animated conversation about how the mayor is spoiling the village with his vulgar signage. The vendor pulls me onto the street and points out an ugly sign that has gone up on the corner, right next to an ancient stone fountain. Back inside I point out some big bright oranges. And then we’re onto the next topic: the vendor’s recent malady. This is how a transaction goes in small Sicilian markets.
I’m still being served when in waltz two americani. They do not say buongiorno. No greeting at all! Strike 1. Then they head for the tomatoes, and–horror of horrors!!–fondle the juicy red orbs with their own filthy fingers, scooping up the ones they want themselves! I suppress a gasp. Strike 2. And, yes, it gets worse: they march up to the cash register, pull out their euro bills and push them at the vendor. AND I’M STILL IN THE MIDDLE OF MY TURN!!!! Strike 3. The vendor is gracious, as am I. But the episode makes me see how easy it is for innocents abroad to commit faux pas, and in these innocents, I see myself. And yes, there is a strike 4. They waltz out the door with nary a word, wishing us neither a good day nor a good lunch.
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May 1, 2015
May Day. National holiday.
Andiamo alla campagna! One and all to the countryside!
Heading for the hills on May Day is one of those unwritten Sicilian rules, like the one that requires you, when hanging out your wash, to clip each sock at the toe and hang it neatly next to its mate.
So off we go.
And there we find: bygone lanes, farmhouses with braying dogs, fields of ripe artichokes.
 But why we’ve really come is to forage for wild food. We rummage in meadows, like old-time peasants. Look! There’s asparagus, lassini and malva!
This goes on for hours.
 Lassini–you have to pick these stems before they flower. It’s already too late to eat this particular plant but we find lassini plants in the shade that have not yet flowered.  Malva–you eat the leaves, not the flowers. It’s such an ancient food that Horace mentions it: Me pascunt olivae, me cichorea levesque malvae (As for me, olives, chickory and malva provide sustenance.) When hunger hits, we pull down green almonds and pop the whole fuzzy thing in our mouths. I make a sour face and am admonished for my timidity.
 Twenty minutes after arriving home, the meadow is on my plate.
 It’s getting cold, so I will bid you buon appetito and arrivederci.
jann
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All photos and text on BaroqueSicily are Copyright of Jann Huizenga ©2009-2015, unless otherwise noted. Material may not be copied or re-published without written permission. All rights reserved.
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When he saw my lens, he pulled her in for a smooch, Latin-lover style.
Long live laurels. Long live love, lads and lasses. Evviva l’Italia.
