1930's Queens Village, NY

A friend with a camera happened by on a summer afternoon and captured this image, the only photo that remains of the whole family. Cranky youngsters and stoic teens.

They had a small plot of land with a cabin in Queen's Village, NY. It was still a place of farms in the 1930's. Antonio would spend the summer there cultivating the plot. My mother, the oldest daughter, would spend her summer canning and preserving the harvest. On weekends, when work allowed, my grandmother would take the train ride to visit and make bread and pasta for the week.

Having no other photos of the Queen's Village cabin my impressions are formed by the few stories that seeped through the cracks of the memory of elders. My mother mostly recalls it as a place where she worked relentlessly. Canning fruits and vegetables. Cooking. Caring for her younger siblings.

Any joy they may have experienced there was later overshadowed by the receipt of the telegram informing them of the the death of Frank, the second eldest son, fighting in Italy in WWII. He's standing rear right in the photo.

A few years back when my mom was visiting me we managed to beat the squirrels to the ripe peaches on our peach tree. Leaning over, so as not to have the sweet juices run down her face, my mom shared one of the few sweet memories from that plot of land.

She hadn't had a juicy tree ripened peach since those days long ago. I think we ate peaches for dinner that night. She just couldn't get her fill.

Antonio and Maria

In large part my voyage to Sicily was an effort to feel connected to the ancestral home of my maternal grandparents.

My grandfather, AntonioMarchese, left Alcamo, Sicily with his older brother as a young man in his teens in the early 1900's. They made the journey as part of a mass exodus hoping for a life of opportunity. My grandmother, Maria, made the journey from Sciacca alone, as a young girl. Her mother wasn't able to care for her so she was sent to live with family in Brooklyn, working for her keep. Her story was rife with hardship.

In a time of arranged marriages, their union was instigated by true affection.

They left behind all that they knew and gathered in crowded New York communites with other immigrants who shared their language and customs.

I often wondered how they could leave all the beauty of Sicily behind. I think it simply comes down to the fact that you can't eat beauty when times are hard.



a street in Sciacca

Still life with ricotta

A staple in my kitchen while I was in Castellemmare del Golfo was some fresh ricotta. Drizzled with olive oil on some fresh bread, or dollops dropped on pasta with tomato sauce it made a quick satisfying meal or snack.

Growing up in Brooklyn ricotta came overflowing in quart sized tins wrapped with waxed paper held in place with a rubber band. It was only later that the familiar yellow plastic container of Polly-O ricotta became the staple.

One of my fondest childhood memories is my grandfather fashioning a sprinkler for us in the backyard, using the tin from the ricotta. He would poke holes into the container and hang it from the clothesline with the hose running into it. The water would come down in a gentle, cool shower.

On hot days we would sometimes go to the park on Knickerbocker Avenue to run through the sprinkler. But the park had become a place where shady characters dominated the benches and we were told not to visit there anymore. Papa's innovation was no doubt inspired by the sprinkler in the park.

While elsewhere in America in the fifties, kids were going to camp and taking swimming lessons at suburban town pools, we were quite content to cool off in grandpa's homemade ricotta can sprinkler amidst the fragrance of his sweet yellow roses.

I can still see the smile of contentment on his face as he watched from the kitchen window as we jumped and squealed in the safety of his backyard.

the long march for cassateddi

Family gatherings always meant stacked white boxes from the bakery tied with red and white string . The biggest box would hold the assortment of pastries. Canoli, napoleon, éclairs, baba au rum, sfegiadelle, and maybe, just maybe, a cassitella or two. There was usually a cheesecake, hopefully without all that gooey assorted fruit, and a box of cookies ... either a fancy assortment that would include rainbow cookies, which all the kids seemed to like despite their lack of taste, or the more peasant varieties of sesame cookies, sprinkled circles, and meringue sevraonola.

These events were often accompanied by my father’s home movie rig, which included a long rack of merciless floodlights... resulting in all that footage of family and friends showing palms of hands shielding squinting eyes.

Simplest among the pastries, the cassitella was my favorite… a fried turnover of dough with a sweetened ricotta cream filling, dotted with bits of chocolate. I’ve heard that it was my grandmother’s favorite and that she used to make them.

One of my goals in coming here to Sicily was to find the cassitella. Hours before I was due to return my rental car I saw the woman who owned the apt I was staying in. I had been there for two weeks now and had had no luck in my search. Could she recommend a good pastisserria? Si. She showed me on the map. The Tropical Bar. I didn’t have high hopes for a place with that name.

To my surprise, there, amongst the widest assortment of pastries I’d ever seen, was the long sought after cassitella…just as I remembered it. My sister and I were giddy with excitement.

It would be pastries for dinner tonight. Without guilt.

We carefully cradled our beautifully wrapped treasure for the ride back to the apartment. In Sicily every purchase is carefully wrapped in beautiful paper, designed specifically for each vendor.

Now, without a car I go on a long march up hill to the outskirts of town …where roads lead west to Trapani and east to Palermo… called by the nostalgia of childhood sweets.

It’s a beautiful day. Since that big wind came in from Africa last week, the days have gotten increasingly warmer. Some of the sights and smells I took in on this leisurely march were a man selling snails from baskets on the back of his little truck… bundles of wild foraged asparagus being sold from blue pails.

Passing a florist I was engulfed in the sweet scent of freesia. Dumpsters, beside a renovation in progress, are filled with remnants of ancient plastered walls. I want to dive in and fill my pockets with artifacts. I resist the temptation.

Everywhere beautiful sheets hang in the breeze from terrace clotheslines. Just about all the sheets I’ve seen hanging are beautifully embroidered or decorated with cutwork.

I go into a small shop selling kitchenwares and gifts that brides might offer as a wedding favor. I find a small circular ravioli cutter that I must have. Two would be even better. The proprietor, a woman a whole head shorter than me (I’m only 5’ 2”!) invites me in. She shows me an ashtray in the shape of Sicily, which I now regret not purchasing.

Looking at me she asks, “New York?”
“Si.”
She looks harder. “Brooklyn?”
“Si.” I respond again.
She smiles widely…. and a stream of quick, excited words follow. I’m clueless as to what she is saying. But I sense she is talking years and places.
I say, “Knickerbocker Ave?”
Now she is really excited… “Si, si, si… Knicker Bocker!” A connection is made.
She continues to smile and bob her head as she wraps my meager purchase.

Wide smile on my face now… I walk further on down via Segesta for the final stretch of my pastry march.






Mary Taylor Simeti's Cassateddi Di Ricotta (Ricotta Turnovers)

Makes 3 dozen

Pastry

* 3-3/4 cups flour (the author suggests using one part pastry flour to three parts all-purpose flour)
* One-quarter cup sugar
* One-quarter cup unsweetened cocoa
* 1 cup white wine
* One-half cup lard

Filling

* 1 and one-half pounds ricotta, well drained with a little salt added to it
* 1 cup sugar
* One-half cup semisweet chocolate bits or grated rind of 1 lemon
* Vegetable oil for frying
* One-half cup superfine sugar, or granulated sugar ground fine
* 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Sift together the flour, sugar, and cocoa onto a marble or wooden surface. Make a well and add the wine slowly, using just as much as it takes to make a fairly compact dough. Cut the lard into small pieces and knead it piece by piece into the dough. Knead for at least 15 minutes, working the dough out into a long strip and folding it back on itself so as to incorporate as much air as possible, until the dough is very smooth and elastic, and shiny but not greasy to the touch. Put the dough into a bowl, cover with a towel or a lid, and let it stand for an hour.

Save the ricotta. Beat in the sugar, and stir in the chocolate bits or, if you prefer something less sweet, the lemon rind.

Roll out the dough to a very thin sheet, and cut out 3-inch disks. On each disk place a scant tablespoon of ricotta. Fold the disks over into half-moons and , moistening , the edges with a little water, seal them carefully.

Fry the turnovers in adundant and very hot (about 375 degrees F.) vegetable oil, at least 3 inches deep) until they are delicately browned. Drain on absorbent paper and serve while still warm, sprinkled with ground cinnamon and granulated sugar that has been ground to a fine texture in a mortar.

This recipe was taken from POMP AND SUSTENANCE: TWENTY-FIVE CENTURIES OF SICILIAN FOOD by Mary Taylor Simeti