Lemon Granita

I do not like doing things in person here. I miss being able to pick up the phone and arrange things. But here most things benefit face to face. When the person you need is the person you find. And that is a challenge. They are always coming back later, and later seems lost in the slow motion of life here. Everybody is trying to get someplace else and fast. What about these fast cars throughout the night? Are they successful? Do they bring any more life, any more of gusto that melts under the brutal mid day sun?

F. drives 80 in a 50 km zone, as does everyone else.. Andiamo uscire, means, "lets get dressed up and get in the Citroen with the radio loud and drive through the same towns over and over and over again." Crazy. I just accept it. I like the speed. I need it.

Tonight I think more than ever, I understand the fantasy we are sharing. I am the woman who understands him more than any has ever in his life , his real Siciliana . If being happy restores me to my Sicilian roots, then perhaps he is right.

More for his sake than for mine, I hope F. does get out of Sicily. Life here is stifling. Trying to get anything done with the least regard for order, professionalism, accuracy, or wholeness is like asking a cow to dance.

Leaving Sicily would be heartbreaking. She is dramatic, bizarre, unusual, her people decorated with a kind of Riviera flashy 70's aesthetic. We are all in our skin, in this heat who can avoid a sultry awareness, a brazenly sexy, intimate relationship with well designed vestiti ? Dresses and pantaloni split high to the hip welcome the warm, dexterous grope of the initiated, seeking love settling for sex, weaving romantic verse and fantasy to fill the void.

I love and hate it here.

From Mongerbino to Aspra to Bagheria, today I start at an office learning that no one is in. Don't know when they will be back. No phone, no communication on my part, struggling with Italian. How can I fix this? It's not that I can, I am going faster than everyone on days such as this, yet this is a cruel illusion. Getting anywhere fast/er is somehow a lie. Only walking is true.

Today's it simply can't be done any faster. it can't be done. Period.

Hot so hot. Granita. Lemon Granita, sour, sweet, cool, enlightenment for my throat, my belly, my perspiring, sun beaten face. My walk towards Bagheria is possible with the Granita. I find a phone on the road between Aspra and Bagheria. I need something, lemon and icy. A lemon ice pop from the gas station will have to do. I call Jenny - she is fast as I, and strangely hungry as I for all this confusion and frustration. I am home again. My call is interrupted by the suspicious stare of an old Sicilian woman and I head into Bagheria where I find another phone, dial my million digit phone card code and continue to speak in English for the first time in weeks. What a relief. Not only does Jenny understand me, but for a moment I am familiar to myself.


Lemon Granita

Ingredients:
6 lemons, large
1 c. sugar
1 1/3 c. water

makes 2-4 servings
depends how hot you are!

Making the Granita:
1. Wash the lemons well. If not organic, soak them in water with a tablespoon of bleach for 5 minutes. Rinse. Dry the lemons and zest them, being careful not to cut into the white of the rind. Roughly chop the zest.
2. Place zest in a saucepan with the sugar and water and heat until it simmers.
3. Strain the mixture into a shallow pan, such as a rectangular cake pan.
4. Let it cool to room temperature.
5. In the meantime, roll the lemons on a hard, flat surface to soften the lemons, making them easier to juice. Juice all three lemons into the sugar syrup, being careful to not letting the pits fall in. I use a small tea strainer and squeeze lemons over this. I love the pulp, so sometimes I let that enter the syrup.
5. Stir the mixture well. Cover the pan with saran wrap or aluminum foil (mostly to keep out any odors from the freezer. Freeze, if possible, set the temperature low.
6. As it freezes, take a fork (if the pan is not Teflon coated or a stiff rubber spatula ) and scrape the ice to break it up, loosening any ice film that forms and crushing any lumps. Repeat every 20 minutes or so - more often once it's almost frozen. It should seem more like mixed up crystals rather than slush, this will happen soon enough after serving.
7. Serve it when it's slightly slushy, and mostly broken up, small crystals.*

*If you ate Italian Ices out of a cup when you were a kid (not from the machine) it should have the texture of the bottom ice, that 1/2" which kind of was crystalized and as you ate your way down, it got softer, and was still kind of crackly, but not impervious to your spoon. That's the texture.



All contents copyright 2004-2007.
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Unemployed

This afternoon we visited Santa Rosalia the Patron Saint of Palermo. We scaled the scores of stone steps to a bright, white even hopeful church. It's damp, dark interior is the cave where Rosalia lived in prayer and solitude till the end of her life during the 16th Century.

Hundreds of penned notes, requests, tokens, offerings and prayers nearly litter the walls and bowls set out for this purpose. Missing are the signs and admonitions to "keep quiet," "no flash photography," "no naked legs." Rather than a tourist destination for the heathen masses we are in church. Serious church. I drap my bare shoulders with my scarf and we gently enter the volcanic & limestone sanctuary.

Catholicism in Sicily is a strange thing. It is as much Catholic doctrine as it is Pagan. A mixture of both, seasoned by centuries of Middle Eastern, African, European, Norman, Asian and Celtic occupations. Unlike Northern Italy, Northern France, Ireland, or the Brooklyn of my Irish-Sicilian upbringing, Jesus Christ is not the focus. Sure the Mass is dictated by the Vatican and follows the canon. But outside on the street where people live, where they build their shrines, bake their bread, devotional pastries and host their ritual processions, it is the Virgin whose sacrifice throws the faithful into frenzy. Her sacrifice is personal, intimate, palpable. And it is Santa Rosalia the Virgin Hermit who in 1624 saved her children the city of Palermo from the plague.

Italy's faithful often describe themselves as non- practicing believers. Why bother go to confession when they can't really repent. Once divorced, to love again is forever a sin. Yet today, Franco takes my hand as he prepares to pray to this gilded, stone virgin.

Maybe Santa Rosalia can help. Maybe she will.

At the end of his first day as one of the hundreds of thousands unemployed Sicilians, we head for the beach and swim in a beautiful cove, cradled by craggy, limestone cliffs an almost lunar landscape; thousands of steps away from any road or person; and for a moment the severity of Sicilia is strong enough, gentle and loving enough to comfort one of her beaten sons in this Tyrrhenian pieta.

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Chick pea , lemon and rosemary soup

These days are so hot, I am grateful for the break midday. I have come to love my day being dictated by an uncompromising force. I must get up early, I must work in the morning, shop before 1 and have lunch at 1:30. I no longer have the freedom of being able to "do it" whatever it may be, anytime. I now have the freedom of having done it. There is no alternative, procrastination comes with too great a cost. Absolute social paralysis and hunger at midday.

Pranzo , mid-day naps and as corny and anti-feminist is sounds the casalinga. I love it all. I even like cleaning the 8 foot tall windows (6 of them) that open out to the terrace. This is probably the clearest indication that I have crossed over to the 1950's or at least that my inner Virgo has surfaced. One day I am sure I will eat these words, but for now, this is how it is.

For pranzo I prepared Chick Pea Soup ; American fried chicken - (a special request) , stuffed zucchini flowers and salad. At 1:15 the bell rang three times, the door opened to a beautiful smile and tanti, tanti, piccoli, piccoli baccini* In Bagheria today the most beautiful horses rode through through town in procession for the feast of St. Giuseppe. The million dollar painted carts carried singers of incomprehensible songs, even the Siciliani haven't an idea what is being sung. They sound like a blend of Hebrew cantations and Tibetan chants, strong, loud, brave even, syllables long, incomprehensible, mesmerizing.

A profound heralding of a mysterious and disturbing end to this sensual day.

The sound of distant fireworks, so common this month, boom-boomed me out of the house around 8pm and I found myself in the wake of the horses who entered Bagheria 3 hours ago. I made my way through the festival, past carnival games, rides, neon lights , streets lined with North African merchants selling carpets, lamps, shoes and candy, loads of candy, nuts and coconut displayed in fountains of water.

At 9pm my cell rang. "Where are you?" "On the corner near the Foccacceria." Sour and somber, nervous and serious, Franco picks me up. He is not ready for dinner.

I dared to ask, how he was. "Male, malissima nuovita." He was fired. Oh no. 50% unemployment in Sicily. Quietly, I smoke a cigarette. I am bit nervous too. This is serious. I am not afraid for him, or for us, although maybe I should be. What I am is, curious.

He sprang right into action. Calling and going around town talking about it to other macellaii, and various serious and respected men.

More phone calls, shouting , furious and righteous indignation, no matter which dialect of Sicilian he was speaking, it was clear the message.

Around 11pm we learned he was accused of stealing meat.

A long day.
Thank God for Chickpea, Lemon and Rosemary soup in Sicilia, where time stops for everyone at midday.


Chickpea, Lemon and Rosemary Soup
makes 4 generous servings
freezes well.

1 cup Tubetti #41 pasta, uncooked
2 quarts water
1 tablespoon kosher salt
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (divided 1+2)
1 medium red onion, chopped (about 1.5cups)
1 teaspoon dried rosemary
1/4 teaspoon dried marjoram
1/4 teaspoon dried thyme
6 cups chicken stock divided 2+4
5 cups of canned chick peas (or home soaked if you like, although this usually renders a tough pea)
1/3 teaspoon celery seed
3 large garlic cloves
2 1/2 tablespoons tomato paste
2 lemons cut into wedges
salt and pepper to taste
1/2 lemon cut into slices for garnish.

To make the pasta:
1. In a 2.5 quart heavy bottom saucepan, boil the water, add salt, and cook pasta according to the directions on the package. Drain and toss with 1 Tablespoon of oil. Reserve.

To make the soup
2. Heat the remaining oil over medium heat in the soup pot. Saute the onion. Add rosemary, thyme and marjoram. Saute until the onions are translucent. Crush celery seed in your palm and add to the onions. Add garlic and 2 cups of chicken stock. Bring to a boil and reduce to a simmer for 10 minutes. Strain soup through a sieve and return the liquid to the soup pot. Add two cups of Chick peas. Heat through for 5 minutes.
3. Puree the mixture in a food processor or hand mill. (I used a moulinex today). I like this part of the soup to be nice and smooth, so I usually pass it through a fine sieve to remove any skins that were not pulverized. If you don't mind, you can skip this step.
4. Add the remaining stock, chick peas and the tomato paste. Mix well to . Simmer 10 minutes. Add the cooked pasta and heat through. Simmer 10 minutes
Season to taste with salt and pepper.
5. Remove from heat. Squeeze lemons into soup. Garnish with a lemon slice for each serving.

* lots of little kisses.

Festa Di San Giuseppe

This afternoon, while checking my email for farmer replies (as usual) there came a sound from outside. It was kind of a combination of Tibetan and Hebrew chanting. Asking folks on the street what he was singing - No one knew. Every year these million dollar carts are paraded through the streets of San Giuseppe and drawn by majestic plumed beasts, and every year these songs are sung that no one understands.

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Super Store Super Sad

Before Lunch

Farm update: Nothing.

Spent some time on the internet today and learned that I have nothing to do but wait .

I wait, I wait for the fruit to ripen on farms, I wait for this love affair to bear fruit, if it will. 11 days a love affair too early to know, too early to say.

Mother Pazienza Sicilia teaches me.

This morning I was invited to visit him where he works, at a local Super Market. I was nervous and did my best to just shop, as though I was shopping as I do nearly every day.The produce looked terrible. There were some decent values on pasta and dairy, but the produce looked pretty sad. Perhaps it was the miserable fluorescent lights. More likely it was the miserable produce man. He was sad. I detected a fallen hero. In fact all the men working there seemed sad. Dignified, professional, precise and proud. Yet like lions in cages. I guess that makes the supermarket a zoo.

Sad. The markets in Italy I remember from 1986 burst with flavor, color, aromas, bustle and bravado. I first came here in those days before the super store, cheap meat imports and the outlawing of unpasteurized milk products. To shop and to eat authentically is now a crime or an impossibility. How can you sanitize a Mediterranean country? Would you destroy the bacteria that makes yogurt? Would you kill the mold that makes Gorgonzola blue, bread rise, or kraut saur? Would you outlaw the spit that makes milk into curative Kefir?

Yes, I am afraid, yes.

There will always be contraband dairy as long as cows are milked before they are cooked, and kefir as long as we have saliva. As long as somebody with a square of land and spits his watermelon seeds, vegetables with grow and we will have a chance to reclaim our food. But who will set these caged kings free? It's obvious that these men all 35-60 years old have worked their metiers a long time before coming to this supermarket. It's not like the USA where the guy behind the deli counter is part time, working his way through school. These men are the real deal. When I asked him about this, he said yes, each owned their own businesses at one time. Himself included.

I paid and set out to put the groceries in his Citroen. I rode my bike home.

Looking for the car
His Car

Something about a picture being worth a thousand words...

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Paper Palermo

In Palermo yesterday, I met some paper guys in the La Kalsa district.

And a day later realize how something like this is only possible in a place that has no rain.

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Riding the wave.

No news from the farmers. I send emails. I call. No one responds positively. Neither the Calabrese nor the Siciliani. Seems that everyone is getting ready for the festa, the few weeks in August when the country closes. It’s too hot in Sicily to harvest anything and all the plantings been done ages ago, so the work on the farms is minimal. No need for little old volunteering me.

Maybe around the end of the month and into September when the carob and cactus pears are ready.

Things are ready to pop here in Bagheria too. Today I went into Palermo and did a little sight seeing. When I returned this evening the streets were teeming with people. People I had not seen before. Lots of Mercedes and Mazzeratti drove slowly through the streets of Bagheria. On the streets beautifully tanned, clothed and coifed, thinner than your typical Bagherese visitors greeted the denizens more familiar to me. I seemed to be in a swarm of homecomings.

The many baseball cap sporting Italo-Americans are loud and large next to their Sicilian cousins. Before the Church piazza a red carpet is unrolled leading to unknown parts. A performers stage is under construction.

Making my way through the streets I am headed to the Butcher’s apartment.

My days of living steps from the Tyrrhenian sea luxuriating in the stillness of this place seem to be over.

As for now, I feel in sync. Life erupts on the streets in full regalia. Decorated streets, decorated people. Twilight dims the sun, festival lights cast upon the chattering folk. I move through the crowd in a daze dodging arms and cigarette smoke as I go. I understand barely a word here and there. So much dialect blurring any recognizable ending, declination or name.

His apartment is just a few feet from the end of the street and all its glistening. I have a key. In fact I have the keys. It’s about 8pm now, and he will be home by 9:30. I am making dinner tonight.

Sounds normal? Dating couple, new girlfriend making dinner for her new guy. What you don’t know is that I have been here since July 31st. 5 days after I met him.

I don’t know how to write about it. What I can say is: I do not know what is happening. Something is, and each day that we sit to dinner, or lunch or coffee, we ride a wave of interest, conversation, familiarity, excitement, delight and comfort that catches us, unnerves us and leaves us asking, “how many days is this ?” It’s been just over a week. We know we are getting ahead of our selves, of course. As F. ”col tempo, paso a paso.” Yes, all true. With time, step by step. But my feet have nothing to do with this.

Not having language makes it simpler.

No I have not lost my mind.

I am entirely dependent on my intuition. And this seems rational. It’s not about my having enough data on F. to make decisions, it’s about clarity with myself. I have nothing but me to protect here, I have only to be mercilessly honest with myself, identify the escape route for what ever step towards him I make and I seem to manage.

If I were able to speak with him, wouldn’t I start to listen? Wouldn’t I believe his stories of himself? Wouldn’t I run the risk of accepting reports instead of learning things on my own? Instead I talk to myself the most, and yes send plenty of emails to Jenny, my best friend back home, but mostly to myself. And Lise only knows what she intuits and with time, what she sees and experiences.

By the 31st, I did not know when I would be going to any farms and was seriously considering relocating to Cefalu. Very concerned for me and sad I would be gone, he invited me to stay with him if I wanted, as long as I wanted.

So here I am. Tonight he brings meat as he has every night, and we eat tomatoes shaped like flowers, sweet red onions sliced transparently thin, risotto with orange and herbs and we ride the wave. Col tempo, paso a paso.

All contents copyright 2004-2009.
All rights reserved.