tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27842709530445655522010-01-12T06:38:17.635-05:00reflections from Sicilian kitchens and gardensVirginianoreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-59548563510205655292008-05-18T12:25:00.013-04:002008-06-26T18:21:02.067-04:00

We have been trying to cut our energy consumption.Drive less. Carpool. Collect water for the gardens.We recently decided to stop using the dinosaur of electric dryers that lives in our basement and have begun to hang our laundry to dry. Weather observation takes on a new perspective. The basement clothes lines are being put into service.Hanging clothes in the proximity of the furnace is

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-45718638656710675752008-05-03T09:43:00.012-04:002008-05-03T16:42:49.405-04:00

This cookie jar was a gift to my grandmother, Maria, from Jenny Marchese. Jenny was engaged to my uncle Frank. I never met Frank or Jenny. Frank was a casualty of WWII. Jenny later married someone else. Aunt, uncle, cousins ... lost to war.Frank and Jenny met in a government employment office. She asked his assistance in filling out an application. In the course of filling out the

Virginianoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-56613870948319861342008-04-27T09:57:00.003-04:002008-04-28T07:20:42.038-04:00

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

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-15540832788190711732008-04-19T09:22:00.000-04:002008-04-19T09:31:07.089-04:00

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

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-54109924207058923832008-04-13T11:04:00.003-04:002008-04-13T12:12:36.382-04:00

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

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-66953651397881670562008-04-06T09:31:00.008-04:002008-04-06T13:15:14.353-04:00

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

Virginianoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-17010732207586363982008-03-19T08:42:00.010-04:002008-03-30T08:47:35.563-04:00

Cathedral column in Erice, Trapani, SicilyWe were made to endure twelve compulsory years of catholic school education … co-institutional learning. Girls in one building with the nuns with their restrictive habits. Boys in another with the Franciscan brothers, with their flowing hooded brown robes with knotted rope belts.Fear is a powerful emotion.The Sisters of Mercy and Daughters of Wisdom made

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-59169827777777640122008-03-15T09:05:00.018-04:002008-03-18T09:34:11.664-04:00

The delicious perfume of the sweet pea ranks it way at the top of my list of favorite flowers. I was delighted to discover, years ago, that it is native to Sicily. Most of the hybrids that are grown in gardens today originated with the Sicilian native. On my walks to the rocky shoreline in Castellemmare I picked small bouquets of the wildflowers. In that respect I certainly was quite an

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-20128527829014496982008-03-13T14:13:00.014-04:002008-03-22T08:39:22.393-04:00

Castellemmare del Golfo 2008I came back to that tune over and over... Bobby Darin singing.Epitome of coolness.Here, beyond the sea, evenings could drag on at times in the confines of my studio apt. I didn't venture out after dark. Mostly I was content to cook a great meal, sip some Nero d'Avalo and listen to music... read, write, sort through the photos of the day.I listened to Tony Bennett,

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-38456640330006423642008-03-10T17:07:00.009-04:002008-03-22T08:37:53.505-04:00

In his voice I could hear my dad singing along to Jerry Vale.A familiar tune …… a dramatic song about a beautiful love.Here in Castellemmare I enjoy my stops at the butcher shop more than at any other market. They are sweet, smiling, happy men in their clean white aprons...maybe father, Sebastiano, and son. Their market is scrubbed and fresh. Slabs of meat are cut to order. In addition to the

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-54245264102332274962008-03-10T15:59:00.006-04:002008-03-22T13:56:21.613-04:00

An angel in the form of a smiling produce man appeared to us today. If only I had consulted the guidebook I would have at least had some cautionary advise. “If you are driving into Agrigento, be warned that the one-way system in the old town is a nightmare.” What I would have done with that info I’m not sure. But at least I would have been warned.Without indication of any kind, that I could

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-22678613419995372112008-03-02T07:44:00.002-05:002008-03-02T07:53:19.550-05:00

On street corners, as well as in the many local produce markets, wild foraged veggies are dominant alongside HUGE chartreuse heads of broccoli. Fennel seems to be the dominant weed on the island, in these parts anyway. Artichokes are in bundles with their two-foot long stalks. Dandelion greens are tied in bundles by some wiry grass. The greens are cut at the ground level leaving the root to

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-48557869899877488362008-03-01T08:11:00.012-05:002008-03-22T08:36:09.590-04:00

Though individual homes in Castellemmare del Golfo may be equipped with Internet access… publicly it was not available during the off-season. Hence the interruption in postings. I will not send out a deluge of reports… they will come at daily intervals for a short time…. before reverting to once or twice a week. I traveled all over the island from a home base of Castellemmare, an ancient,

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-18644720704510537532008-01-09T09:17:00.001-05:002008-03-22T08:33:22.274-04:00

Artichokes were for stuffing.My grandfather would hammer the kitchen table with the artichokes to spread the leaves, making room for garlicky breadcrumbs. The loud noise would initially be cause for alarm. Alarm would immediately turn to anticipation upon realization of what was cooking. He would set the artichokes to simmer in a large pot with new potatoes wedged among them to keep them

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-19878049410851365122008-01-07T07:59:00.000-05:002008-01-09T09:16:14.502-05:00

My father seemed to always be sipping from a bowl of coffee. When he was home, which was when he wasn't working or bowling one night a week, the rich aroma of coffee brewing would permeate the house. The glass percolator was never stored away in the cupboards. It was either in the dish rack drying or on the stovetop in use.After a day of work he would stretch his aching back out on the living

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-2338274889006064482008-01-06T17:18:00.000-05:002008-01-06T17:28:32.826-05:00

My mom, now in her 80's, is one of those legendary Sicilian cooks.Family and friends still salivate at the mere thought of a dinner invite. The daughter of Sicilian immigrants, her repertoire was never vast, but reliably changed with the seasons. Her style was to always use time tested recipes requiring the freshest ingredients and an intuitive sensibility. At her side I learned to love preparing

Virginianoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2784270953044565552.post-60915737320558509282007-12-31T08:17:00.000-05:002008-01-09T10:28:41.293-05:00

Brooklyn 1950’sFrom our second floor railroad apartment I had a commanding view of all the back yards, a varied urban landscape. In the gardens of the Italians abundance pushed at the fences. To the left of us the Germans hosed down their cement. To the right was an English country garden with roses and hollyhocks, where I was summoned in the summer to replenish the bird bath. In winter the

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