May 1, 2013
Tumble out of bed at dawn and meet me for a wander about town.
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April 24, 2013 In all my time in Sicily, I’ve never ever seen a uomo (person of the male persuasion) anywhere near a laundry line. Are clotheslines unmanly? It’s always women hanging over balconies, stringing up the sheets. Thank you, ladies, for the sweet smiles and lovely show.
Now, gentlemen, I’d like to see a few of you out and about with clothes pins in hand. *** Read about my first attempt to hang laundry in Sicily here. *** Click to subscribe to BaroqueSicily.
April 16, 2013 Alice hosted a luncheon yesterday.
A 4-legged critter with eyelashes long as dreams, Alice set quite a charming table in the middle of her grassy field, under twirling olive trees.
Her human, Antonio, threw steaks on the grill. Not just any old steaks, but those of Massimiliano Castro, named best butcher in Sicily. We devoured them like a pack of wild animals while Alice, a vegetarian, kept right on chomping her grass. Once in a while her boyfriend would bray from across the valley, and Alice would holler right back. He haw he haw he haw! It’s spring, and love is in the air. For dessert, Antonio made cuccia, the traditional dessert eaten in Siracusa for Santa Lucia feast day–a heart-stopping concoction of grain, ricotta, honey, orange rind, and orange flower water. Head chef at his Donnalucata restaurant, Consiglio di Sicilia, Antonio plans to add the dessert to his menu. Reason enough to get on a plane and fly here all the way from Kansas.  Chef Antonio Cicero with his cuccia Among the guests joining Alice was Sicilian-born, Melbourne-based Marisa Raniolo Wilkins, author of the fabulous Sicilian Seafood Cooking. A gorgeous book created with love for all things Sicilian. Complimenti, Marisa!
Thank you, Alice, for a wonderful afternoon in your field. You’re welcome at my table anytime.  Chef Antonio with Alice *** If you are interested in having a similar lunch with Alice, either with cooking classes or a culinary tour (incuding a salami tasting with Massimiliano), drop me a line and I’ll put you in touch with Antonio and his wife Roberta. ***  Massimiliano Castro, Sicily’s best butcher April 9, 2013 My Roman friend Roberta–who has moved to Sicily–proposed that I host an afternoon tea. Great idea, you say? Ha. Consider this: Roberta works for Gambero Rosso, Italy’s gastronomic bible, which pitilessly rates and ranks food. She’s reviewed fancy Michelin-starred restaurants all over Italy … and Paris … and London … and New York. She’s penned cookbooks and other food books and now runs a restaurant near the shore with her new Sicilian marito. So the thought of feeding my food-goddess amica filled me with a kind of horror. But I’d been fed at her table plenty of times, so it was time to step up and act like a Big Girl. Whaddya serve at a tea party, anyway? Was Roberta expecting high tea or low tea? I was sure mine would be low–very, very low. You eat breads and cakes, don’t you? I can do that. I like to bake. I ran my usual repertoire through my head.
Every single thing I’d ever baked in my entire life contained a key ingredient that this isle lacks. So to the Wide Web I went, trolling for lemony-orangey things. Because mountains of lemons and oranges we have. Then I got to work squeezing lemons, chopping nuts, whipping eggs. It was warm enough to toss the doors wide open. Big furry bees circled the honey.
And an orange-nut loaf.
And lemon meringue pots de creme, a NY Times recipe.
And raisin scones, totally unworthy of a photo. You can just get a glimpse of them below–those things in the back that are flat and hard as hockey pucks. What self-defeating instinct made me put pucks on the table????? The fact that I had good mandarin marmalade and zagara honey to scoop on them was no excuse.
I had a Plan called Prosecco. When my guests arrived, I would get them tipsy so they wouldn’t care what they were eating. I let the Moroccan mint tea steep and steep while we tossed back the sauce. We toasted the slaves of Milan and New York who do not know the perks of the free-lance life, and we toasted Sicily.
The orange-nut bread was unremarkable, but Roberta rushed to the rescue: She pulled a pastry bag of ricotta cream from her purse, like a rabbit from a hat. Abracadabra! The perfect spread! The Tuscan lemon muffins were good and moist, but Roberta reserved her praise for the lemon meringue pots de creme.  Roberta Corradin Hooray! I got the Gambero Rosso thumb-up! *** April 4, 2013 Easter is long gone, I know. But not here in Sicily. After an intense week of processions and candles and dirge-tolling bells and Roman soldiers on horseback and skies aflame with fireworks and Easter lambs and ricotta tarts and cassata cakes, we’re just starting to come to our senses. Sicilians confirmed, once again, that they’re a strong and passionate people. And absolutely loco. In the little village of Ferla, Jesus and Mary wafted out of churches at the opposite ends of town on the shoulders of a dozen hale and hearty Sicilians. The Madonna went uphill; Jesus down. When they got within sight of each other, Jesus broke into a joyful downhill sprint toward Mary.
Twelve pairs of legs were scrambling, centipede-like, to balance his incredible weight while flying downhill. Onlookers gaped just inches away. I had been casually snapping pictures–la-dee-da–when the stampede began. Aghast, I was–a straniera innocente more or less in their path.
But all is well that ends well, and the morning ended with fireworks streaming through blue skies, tears streaming down cheeks, and kisses & hugs galore. I am sending you some virtual ones. xxxxxxxxxoooooooooo *** |
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