May 30, 2011
Like a bolt from the blue, the Madonna storms out of the skies on a mighty white stallion, sword at hand, slashing and slaying an army of Saracens.
Not your version of the Madonna?
Well, this is Sicily, where everything’s a little different.
The year is 1091. The place is Scicli, near Sicily’s southern coast.
 Madonna delle Milizie The Normans ruled Sicily at that time. Norman knights were battling Saracens and getting creamed. The Norman leader, Roger de Hauteville, prayed to the Madonna for help, and–miracle of miracles–she swooped down to save the day.
Almost a thousand years later, la Madonna delle Milizie is still revered and celebrated in this stony little baroque town. The entire 1091 event is re-enacted each year in late May.
 The Normans  The Saracens What do the locals eat to celebrate the 1091 event?
Turkish heads.
That’s right. They feast on testa di turco, a large cream puff in the shape of a turban. Never mind that the Turks came nowhere near Sicily until the 16th century.
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December 18, 2010
My first Christmas in Sicily. Things are low-key and I’m lovin’ it. The bar has dangled a few nonchalant stars; the barista wears a red tie . The (horse) butcher has lined his doorway with a handful of twinkle-lights. Poinsettias redden the piazza.
Things at the supermercato have reached a fever pitch, though. Christmas cakes in hat boxes—piled high on skids everywhere you look—teeter alarmingly, threatening to bury you alive under mounds of butter and lard. Friends tell me Sicilians start gobbling the cakes (called panettone or pan d’oro) at the end of November. By Christmas, they’re so bloated they can’t look at a hat box.
Which one to get?
Chocolate with orange nibs? Laced with Grand Marnier? Cointreau? Nuts? Truffles? A Mister Chocolate?
How about a cake with a bottle of bubbly enclosed? My head spins.
I finally close my eyes and point. I pick the classic—a spongey-eggy poof studded with oranges and raisins (OK, I’m boring). Wish I were sharing this monster with you!!
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August 19, 2010
I’m furnishing my home with trash.
The orange trash guys drop by on a daily basis. One day they’ll cart away secco, dry stuff. The next day it’s umido, wet stuff. Another day it might be plastica or carta or lattine. I still can’t figure out what the last thing is. To make matters worse, each kind of rubbish must be tightly wound up in a different-hued bag: lava-black for secco, pistachio-green for umido, and so on. I don’t expect to ever really catch on to a system that’s as complicated, in its own way, as Sicilian codes of honor.
But all that’s beside the point. What matters is not the debris they haul away from the house, but what they bring in. Last week one of them, eyes ablaze, said, “I hear you like old stuff, Signora.”
“You heard right, Signore.”
“Well, I have a piece of an old Sicilian cart. Do you want it?”
I took it, of course, along with his picture in the too-bright sun.
Then the next day along comes this: a rusted grinder, still smelling seductively of caffè.
So we’re in business, me and the garbage guys. Will the house soon look like a moldering antiques bazaar?
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January 21, 2010
Here’s how I got into trouble.
After teaching a short course in Ragusa in 2002, I’d returned year after year to Southeast Sicily to root around for a little casa. The Fates pushed back with all their might and I finally admitted defeat.
In the spring of 2007, I came to see friends one last time and close the Sicilian chapter of my life. Ciao, Sicilia.
A day before bidding the island farewell, I scaled the long staircase up from Ibla’s Piazza Duomo to see the cupola from on high. After many years cocooned in scaffolding thick as wool, it had reemerged triumphant.
It looked good enough to eat, like whipped cream on a tumbler of granita. I felt a secret joy. Bells tolled, clouds slipped up from the valley. I inhaled la zagara—orange blossoms on the breeze—like a drug.
I turned. There, on an unassuming little row house with a mottled wall and weatherworn door, I saw the magic words: VENDITA.
I saw. I called. I bought. Cast myself into a new world just like that. 1-2-3.
Never imagining for a minute what was in store.
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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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