August 15, 2010
Love has no uttermost, as the stars have no number and the sea no rest.
Eleanor Farjeon
 
Morning has broken, water-soft, love-silent.
But in a few hours a tangle of nut-brown limbs and blue umbrellas and flip flops will storm these sands. “I Wanna Be a Macho Man” will come crashing, throbbing, tumbling across the waves all the way to Malta, all the way to Africa. Happy Ferragosto to all!
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Do you have a favorite photo of a pair on the beach? Please send and I’ll post it here.
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Thank you to Lucy Christie, who sent in these photos:
 Daughter, Copyright Lucy Christie
 Two Chairs, Lake Huron, Ontario: Photo by Lucy Christie Click to comment.
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August 10, 2010
Where I come from, junk food is considered a major food group and obesity a national emergency. Italians make fun of our junk-food fetish, calling us—kind of cruel, don’t ya think?—culoni, big butts.
Italians believe they’re eating a healthy Mediterranean diet. Take a look in an Italian hypermarket, though, and you’ll see aisles brimming with made-in-Italy junk food.
But why in blazes do nearly all the packages bear American names? Can it be that Italians refuse to sully their own bella lingua by putting it on stuff that clogs arteries and fattens fannies?
 These'll make you whistle Dixie  As in Yonkers, NY?  Kind of wacko, don't you think?  Named after the Fonz?  Only a hipster can appreciate a Cipster (pronounced Chipster) 
 I love this! They stick the Italian plural ("i") onto an English word PS: I hope you appreciate these photos–Supermarket Security made me beg for permission from Store Manager, who looked at me like I was some sort of crazy blogger.
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August 6, 2010
I got a little pile of emails and comments about proper beach attire for men a few blogs ago, so I decided to pursue the topic.
“It seems weird,” said my Italian friend Roberta as we sipped iced tea with a scoop of lemon granita floating on top, “to see a guy on the beach not wearing a Speedo. What’s he trying to hide?”
Sicilian men of all shapes and ages seem perfectly at home in skimpy little Speedos, as opposed to their American counterparts, who turn up at the beach swathed in baggy shorts down to the kneecap, complete with inner lining. Why is this? If you have any insights into this cross-cultural diff, fammi sapere, lemme know!
 
 
A recent article in the Huffington Post called “Speedos are Back” shows lots of great styles on the Milan runways!
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August 2, 2010
This is the easiest dessert you can imagine and so very Sicilian. The first time I made the “jello,” I wolfed down the entire 6 servings before I’d even allowed it to cool. If you have a sweet tooth and like lemony things, this is for you.
1. Whisk together in a saucepan:
*2 cups water (or a bit more)
*1/2 to 3/4 cups sugar (I like it with the lesser amount, but Sicilians would put in the greater amount)
*1/4 cup cornstarch (or even a tad less)
*peel of one biggish lemon (cut off in as few pieces as possible and with as little white pith as possible)
*juice of the above lemon
2. Cook on a high flame, stirring constantly. When the pudding thickens and begins to bubble (this will take about 3 minutes or so), pull it off the fire and immediately remove the lemon peel (or it’ll become bitter). Pour into 6 little dessert dishes, cool briefly at room temp, then refrigerate for a few hours.
I learned how to make gelo from Giovanna Giglio, a cooking teacher here in Ragusa (pulling a lemon off her tree, below). If you’re interested in a cooking class with her, drop me a line and I’ll put you in touch with her. See also my previous post about Giovanna.
And for another take on gelo di limone, see this link.
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July 29, 2010
I pick up Signor Giovanni at the beach, on the golden shores of the Ionian.
Take a picture, he commands, seeing my camera.
I oblige.
He draws a tattered poem from a pocket. Per te, for you, he says, already addressing me with the familiar form. The poem has lines like this: You’re a beautiful table, so bountiful I barely know where to begin.
I thank him and return to my caffè-shack “office.” He follows and pulls from his breast pocket a chapbook of poems.
“Mine,” he says. “I wrote them all.”
Opposite each love poem is a black and white photo of his younger self in various poses: flexing biceps on some long-ago beach, posing in a smart sailor outfit next to some long-gone naval vessel; rowing an antique wooden boat. “Look at those addominali, he says, pointing to his youthful six-pack.
I scan the poems, charmed that this man—who says he’s had a hard life farming tomatoes and only four years of school—has produced this work.
He says his poetry has opened doors, including to the nearby Club Med, where he’s met oh so many foreign women.
He writes down his phone number and asks about a husband.
C’è ne uno,” I say. There is one.
He shrugs. “Non importa.” And hands me another poem—this one called Paradise For Us.
 Signor Giovanni reciting his poetry Have you met Don Juan in Sicily or elsewhere?
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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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