September 29, 2010
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The carob
 The carob tree
 The carob farmer
The carob harvest
The farmer whacks at the tree with a long cane stick, and the fruit comes raining down. His wife presses a sackful on us. “Take it to America.”
Carobs, loaded with protein, are what kept Sicilians in this area alive during WWII. Locals ate so many that they couldn’t look at them for decades. But carobs are making a big comeback in the form of carob gelato, carob pasta, carob cake. Bite into them raw! Chewy and earthy, aren’t they?
Before we leave, the farmer says, “What’s the name of your president?”
“Obama.”
“Ah, si” he says. “Do you want to exchange him for ours? We will have Obama and you take Berlusconi.”
Thank you for the kind offer, we say, declining, and bid them addio.
***
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September 24 , 2010
My butcher’s selling something new, something grim. It looks disturbingly like Seabiscuit.
I feel alone, among strangers.
Nearby Catania, the city under Etna, has long feasted on horse. They grill it over red-hot coals, and turn it into a great big horse-burger.
Do you believe in following local customs when you’re in foreign lands?
I’m repulsed, but curious.
Should I? Would you?
***
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September 21, 2010
Spotted in a Sicilian antique store: Baroque armoire of honeyed rosewood. Curlicues. Cornices. Roomy shelves. Way out of my range.
I keep going back. Just looking, I say, petting the piece. The price drops. But still…
“Bellissimo,” rasps the bleached antiquaria, pulling on a cigarette like it’s oxygen itself. “One of a kind. From the villa of a barone.”
I imagine it in its former life, surrounded by Chinese porcelain, bibelots on the mantle, gilt-framed mirrors, Persian carpets, embroideries heavy with tassels. I fork over a wad of euro-cash, and she stubs out her cigarette and says two delivery guys will be on the job posthaste. And won’t it be absolutely gorgeous in my salone.
I don’t have the heart to admit it’s going in my bagno, bathroom, just steps from a toilet.
My buzzer goes off and two rosewood-laden guys heave into the house. My joy sinks a notch when I see her, the antique dealer, imperiously bringing up the rear.
I point toward the bathroom. When she sees how I’m violating Sicilian protocol, she exhales a puff of black smoke, utters a curse, and waves her cigarette around.
Later, I wipe out the centuries of baronial grime, fill it with my plebian doodads, and sweep up her long trail of ash.
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***
For all of you who love Stromboli, or the Aeolian Islands, or Sicily, or Italy–would you help save a gorgeous (earthquake-damaged) church on Stomboli by signing a petition? It’s the project of one of Baroque Sicily’s readers, Beatrice Ughi. Signatures can only be collected until the end September. The link is in Italian, but it’s simple: go to the 3 long, thin boxes at the bottom and put in your name, email address, and the verification code. Mille grazie!
http://iluoghidelcuore.it/san_bartolomeo-stromboli-isole_eolie
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September 17, 2010
“Can I take your picture?” I ask the phalanx of guys warming themselves in the sun.
“Sure,” says the baby-faced man in the foreground. “But hurry up. We’re all on our way to the cemetery.”
That’s Sicilians for you. Curious dark humor.
History’s to blame. Tyranny. Plague. War. Famine. Earthquake. Poverty. Excellent cadavers. Having survived all that, you’d be telling black jokes, too.
***
For some more black Sicilian humor, read Camilleri (if you like mysteries), or Pirandello’s “The Oil Jar and Other Stories” (see my review here), or see the wonderful (long) Taviani Brothers’ film Kaos (Chaos), based on four of Pirandello’s short stories. The village scenes in Kaos were filmed in my town!
***
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September 13, 2010
September mornings are fresh as white sheets snapping on the line. I take long walks up and down stony, ringing steps.
Branches drip with overripe figs. I lean over derelict garden walls and push my arm through tangled vegetation to get at them, then bite into the crunchy redness like you’d suck a juicy orange wedge.
A confession: I didn’t really know a fig from a kumquat until a few years ago (only those gluey Fig Newton atrocities that turned up with some regularity in my school lunchbox). But I love them now. They’re high in fiber and potassium (which will bring your blood pressure down).
Go get figgy, folks! Tis the season. Pair them with a dollop of lush goat cheese and drizzle a blossomy honey on top. Oh, what a nice sticky mess.
***
Here are links to other fresh fig recipes from the New York Times:
Fig tart with caramelized onions
Braised chicken with figs
Grilled figs
What’s your favorite way to eat figs?
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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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