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March 29, 2013 The altar boys go first.
Then comes a fallen Jesus.
Brawny young shoulders carry him aloft. Comes a dolorous Mary. Out of church we go. Down a long steep staircase. Balance carefully now. Down. Down. Down. Into the crowd. Past my little Alis market and into the night, thick with funeral song.
*** March 28, 2013 A fever is sweeping the land. A sweeping fever. A scrubbing fever. I am feverish, too. I emptied out all my drawers. Strewed stuff over the kitchen floor. Got overwhelmed. Grabbed my camera and shut the door on the mess. I’d rather wander about and watch Sicilians clean. I found Lena, sweeping her head off. Much too busy to have more than a few words with me.
March 22, 2013 Happy primavera*! Do you want to feel oh-so-Italian? Then go strip your bed and throw those quilts and blankies on a line. You’ve been hibernating in their depths far too long. (Haven’t you?) Let the stale things inhale the blueish air.
*** *Ah, Primavera. Here’s Botticelli’s version. And to my southern hemisphere amici, happy (belated) autumn!
March 19, 2013 Antonio wipes his floury face. He dusts off his palms then smiles a shy-smile and hangs back. The shopper next to me at the register, a tiny woman, blinks up with nut-brown eyes and explodes with words: “Yes, signora, you are right to take a photo of this bread! What he does is an art! And not many do it! How much longer…?” Antonio unfurls his apron like a dusty flag and follows me out the bakery door into better light. His opere d’arte–baroque breads, all curves and coils and curlicues–were created for today’s Feast of St. Joseph (Festa di San Giuseppe).
The breads are symbolic. Antonio makes crucifixes and fish, too, but those were sold out by the time I arrived. The one below is half crown of thorns, half crown of roses. I forgot to ask what this other one means. It appears to be dancing the tarantella. Any ideas?
I will not eat these–not because of my pasta paunch, but because of their soul. They will glow on my sideboard until they fall to crumbs. *** Saint Joseph is Sicily’s most important saint, and his feast day is the source of much hoopla in the nearby town of Santa Croce Camerina. *** March 16, 2013 Friends came over the other day, arms loaded with wild asparagus. A gorgeous gift! These stalks are damn hard to find–they play hide and seek with you. When you finally spot a lone spear (because they don’t grow in clumps), you have stick your arm into a beehive of prickers to get at them.
I have been loving the bouquet (they stay fresh in water). But now it’s time to say goodbye. They are destined, tonight, for pasta con gli asparagi and frittata di asparagi.
Can’t wait! Have a great weekend, and thanks for reading, amici. *** Here’s a link to my story about the first time I stalked asparagus in Sicily. It may give you some insight into the lover-boy attitude of the Sicilian male. *** Click to subscribe to BaroqueSicily.
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