Living in Sicily « baroquesicily.com - Sicily Stories and Travel Tips from Jann Huizenga

Fasten Your Seatbelt: A Ride Through Sicily

December 7, 2010

A while back I groused about driving in Sicilian hill towns—about the narrowness of lanes and the stone walls that jump out to smack your side-view mirrors. Could you squeeze through these streets? I asked.

Now I’m going to show you what I mean. I’m piloting; my husband’s holding the Flip out the window. Put your seat back into full upright position and store your tray table. (click here for video)

By the way, this is the “road” I drive to reach my house.

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You have till the end of tomorrow, December 8, to enter the random drawing to win Robert Camuto’s Palmento: A Sicilian Wine Odyssey. Just post a comment on any of my blog posts. Click here for more information. I’ll name the winner in my next blogpost. Thank you all for playing!

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Grazie grazie grazie

November 24, 2010

Buon tacchino a voi tutti! (Happy turkey to you and yours!) May you be showered with blessings! Have you counted them yet? Here are some of mine.

I’m thankful for…

A bike on a flaming-orange wall

Green Bike on an Orange Wall, copyright Jann Huizenga

A saint in tawny sandstone

Sculpture of Saint in Modica, Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

Beads that keep the flies at bay.

Plastic Beads to keep away flies in Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

For palms that wave

Palm Tree and Cobbled Courtyard, Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

Arugula that bites

Sicilian Arugula, copyright Jann Huizenga

And green grinning chairs.

Chair on red wall in Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

And for you! For all the new virtual and real friends I’ve made on this blog! Have a great holiday.

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Sicily: Living the Examined Life

November 12, 2010

Laundry in Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

The bras on the line are symbolic.

Moving to a Sicilian village means exposing yourself to public scrutiny, undies and all. You’re watched, eyeballed.

One morning, a tall villager spots my husband Kim—who has just returned from the US—in the piazza. “So,” he says, winking, “the sheep is back in the pen, is he?”

How did he even know Kim was gone?

For two weeks, I leave the house early, before 7am, to work on a project with a friend. I finally get a day to sleep in, but the buzzer squeals violently, over and over. I throw on a robe and open the door. “Oh, sorry signora,” say my neighbors, “to disturb you so early, but we know you will leave the house soon and we need to talk to you.”

They’ve been tracking my movements?

I smell what neighbors are cooking for lunch. I hear them singing, bickering. Living life here is like reading a tell-all, and being shocked to see you’re one of the characters.

How will I fare, exchanging an anonymous life for an examined one?

Time will tell.

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Hanging Laundry in Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga Click to comment.

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Blessed Bread

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.”

Collecting Bread in Palazzolo Acreide, Sicily, Copyright Jann Huizenga

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.

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What food do you revere?

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