May 6, 2015
So I’m at the fruttivendolo, greengrocer’s, a charming hole-in-the wall.
I’m cooling my heels waiting my turn while the vendor and a customer with a nest of snow-white hair lament Italy’s problemi. Every so often the snow-white customer points to a cucumber or a pile of chicory, which the vendor oh-so-carefully picks up and weighs. Ten minutes pass. The two men are pretty riled up–hands flail all over the place–about the fact that Prime Minister Renzi got his electoral reform law (Italicum) passed. Will the right to strike be affected, they fret? Because Italy is a striking culture: teachers & pilots & baggage handlers & bus drivers & train operators & truck drivers & museum workers & taxi drivers walk off the job on a regular basis. You cannot take that away from the Italian 99%-ers, can you???
Anyway, the snow-white man finally shouts a hearty parting to one and all (Buona giornata e buon pranzo! Good day and good lunch!) and steps out the door, trailing a bag chock-full of chicory. I’m up next. Lemons, please! We engage in an animated conversation about how the mayor is spoiling the village with his vulgar signage. The vendor pulls me onto the street and points out an ugly sign that has gone up on the corner, right next to an ancient stone fountain. Back inside I point out some big bright oranges. And then we’re onto the next topic: the vendor’s recent malady. This is how a transaction goes in small Sicilian markets.
I’m still being served when in waltz two americani. They do not say buongiorno. No greeting at all! Strike 1. Then they head for the tomatoes, and–horror of horrors!!–fondle the juicy red orbs with their own filthy fingers, scooping up the ones they want themselves! I suppress a gasp. Strike 2. And, yes, it gets worse: they march up to the cash register, pull out their euro bills and push them at the vendor. AND I’M STILL IN THE MIDDLE OF MY TURN!!!! Strike 3. The vendor is gracious, as am I. But the episode makes me see how easy it is for innocents abroad to commit faux pas, and in these innocents, I see myself. And yes, there is a strike 4. They waltz out the door with nary a word, wishing us neither a good day nor a good lunch.
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May 1, 2015
May Day. National holiday.
Andiamo alla campagna! One and all to the countryside!
Heading for the hills on May Day is one of those unwritten Sicilian rules, like the one that requires you, when hanging out your wash, to clip each sock at the toe and hang it neatly next to its mate.
So off we go.
And there we find: bygone lanes, farmhouses with braying dogs, fields of ripe artichokes.
 But why we’ve really come is to forage for wild food. We rummage in meadows, like old-time peasants. Look! There’s asparagus, lassini and malva!
This goes on for hours.
 Lassini–you have to pick these stems before they flower. It’s already too late to eat this particular plant but we find lassini plants in the shade that have not yet flowered.  Malva–you eat the leaves, not the flowers. It’s such an ancient food that Horace mentions it: Me pascunt olivae, me cichorea levesque malvae (As for me, olives, chickory and malva provide sustenance.) When hunger hits, we pull down green almonds and pop the whole fuzzy thing in our mouths. I make a sour face and am admonished for my timidity.
 Twenty minutes after arriving home, the meadow is on my plate.
 It’s getting cold, so I will bid you buon appetito and arrivederci.
jann
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April 13, 2015
OK, so the earth can sometimes be a dark and baleful place. But let us sweeten it in any way we can.
“Hello, Signora,” the roving vendor croaks. What do you need?”
This is what we’re eating now:
Take heart in the earth’s bounty!
Love to one and all.
September 9, 2014
Cari amici, where’ve you been??? I’ve missed you.
And I miss aromatic streets where sheets billow out like sails. People with olive-black eyes. Sun crawling over the cupola. Loud-mouthed merchants and tiny old ladies. Chaos at the post office. Jasmine growing wild.
I’ll be back in Sicily before too long I hope, but till then, here are a few more things I miss.
Hope you had a wonderful August, Dear Reader, and thanks for stopping by.
***
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July 26, 2014
Around eight in the evening, in a town I don’t know, I pause to shoot this wide-eyed fella and his a wispy beard.
Come on in. Don’t I want to see the club?
I hesitate. Will someone spring on me? Twist my arms and slaughter me?
You have to stoop to get inside the old scratched door. Claw marks?
The place is dusky and cavernous.
He says the name is La Caverna.
I squint and pick my way through the pitch-darkness. Who is lurking at the back of the cave?
It’s only Mr. White Glasses, smoking. Turns out he’s the owner of the cavern.
Mr. White Glasses leads me toward an even blacker room in the back. Is this where they hold the hostages?
But no. There is only sweet Mr. Little and his tame friends playing a game.
Laughing, chatting, joking. Not even drinking.
I’m charmed.
The fella leads me back out and wishes me a buona serata.
I almost never feel any qualms about traveling sola in Sicily. But once in a while, if you could read the thought bubble over my head it would say, “Nitwit. Is this really a prudent thing to do?”
Do you travel alone? How cautious are you?
****
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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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I’m up next. Lemons, please! We engage in an animated conversation about how the mayor is spoiling the village with his vulgar signage. The vendor pulls me onto the street and points out an ugly sign that has gone up on the corner, right next to an ancient stone fountain. Back inside I point out some big bright oranges. And then we’re onto the next topic: the vendor’s recent malady. This is how a transaction goes in small Sicilian markets.
