Sicily : A Taste of Home

I was 12. It was my first trip to almost anywhere. My family was Italian, but the only world I knew was the suburban town where I grew up. Early one morning in 1963, earlier than I’d ever been awake, we left for the train station, the many suitcases of clothes my mother had carefully assembled piled into the trunk of a taxi.

We arrived in New York, our first destination, where we stayed at the old Vanderbilt Hotel. We went to the top of the Empire State Building, had lamb chops at Longchamps, and, to the great excitement of my sisters and me, ate lunch in an automat. Then we left for Italy, but not as planned on the Saturnia--a strike in Italy kept all ocean-liners in the Italian fleet from setting sail. Instead, we boarded a Pan Am plane bound for Rome, then traveled by train down the long and winding coastal route to board a boat for Sicily.

I’d been raised on my mother’s stories about her life in Italy--her grandmother, cousins and aunts; their beauty and gaiety and charm; their lives, which seemed to me to be textured and colored like rich damask. But I’d also been raised on war stories: the sound of Nazi boots stomping across the floorboards of the underground hiding place where my mother, then a teen-ager, cradled her cousins Maria Felice and even-younger Marisa, whispering to them, “Don’t cry, you must be very quiet,” all the while feeling the stark terror of death lurking close by. In the comfort of my suburban bedroom, I would dream of soldiers hiding behind our neatly trimmed bushes and see overhead the planes poised to strafe my sleepy Southern California neighborhood.

But mostly I held in my mind’s eye an image, not clearly defined, of golden people, with shining eyes, laughing, gathered around a fragrant table laden with pasta and chilled insalata russa. My mother’s early life was in the city of Palermo, a sophisticated city in those prewar years, where graceful Art Nouveau buildings lined elegant Via della Liberta. Where the Foro Italico, which comprised a curve of aquamarine sea along the city’s edge, was considered one of the most beautiful marinas in all the world, lined with gelaterie, umbrella-ed cafes, and crowded with people taking an evening stroll.

H. Bartlett, in his 1853 book, “Pictures From Sicily,” described the marina this way: “The bay is silvered over, the mountains stand around in shade like giant sentinels, freshness breathes from the water, perfume is in the air, everything around is steeped in beauty, and the heart and senses open to the most tender and most contagious emotions. Hour after hour is thus passed away, the spot is abandoned with regret, and it is often midnight before the throng reluctantly separate, and the Marina is deserted until the following evening.”

Here my mother strolled arm in arm with her aunts, with her grandmother, enjoying an ice cream, enjoying the cool night air. This was my mother’s life in the city of Palermo until the war brought an end to all that was civilized and sensuous, to all that had come before. Still, as we traveled to Italy, my mind contained only pictures of vibrant people, loved ones, and a life of pleasure known to Palermo’s charmed citizens during those fleeting years.

We arrived at the train station in Palermo and were taken to the apartment of my mother’s Aunt Gina. She had died recently, much to the sadness of my mother, who had loved her perhaps more than any of the others. Her apartment was to be ours during our stay and the furniture remained where it had been--the credenza filled with bottles of colored liqueurs, the large mahogany armoire still containing her clothes, her cane rocking chair (could I see it still rocking?) It felt a bit eerie to be staying in her house with her presence almost palpable in the air, but death in Italy is not something that is swept under the rug.

When we first arrived at the apartment, a small package was delivered to our door, a gift from relatives, bound in shiny paper and thin pink ribbon. It contained pastries filled with sweet cream and a deep-red watermelon gel. This was my first taste of the real Sicily and one I’ll never forget. It was new and strange and, like the city, held itself out to me wrapped in deep and exotic mystery, to be slowly unwrapped and savored.

During the summer we spent there, the stillness of the apartment added a richness to our explorations, as we wandered from room to room, the heavy wooden shutters vainly struggling to keep out the blinding heat. From the long balcony we could smell coffee roasting in the shop on the corner and breathe in the heady smell of little bouquets of summer jasmine; echo-y voices would drift up at all hours of the day and night; the heat and humidity, like a heavy mantle, would keep us awake at night, until we would rise at dawn, to lean against the balcony railing and feel the first small breeze of the morning and listen to the cries of the street vendors.

We began a round of visits, first to Aunt Rubina, Gina’s sister. There we gathered in the lobby of the beautiful palazzo of pale-pink marble where she lived, and took the filigreed iron elevator to her door. The apartment was furnished with sofas and chairs upholstered in deep-green velvet framed in graceful carved wood. There was an elegant room for card games, and bedrooms faced terraces and overlooked the piazza below. Dinner was served in the large dining room, taken, of course, at midday, when the city was quiet and still.

The courses, one after the next, were each delicious. There was a special insalata russa , the salad my mother had so loved as a child, prepared now especially for her, with its bright mosaic of finely diced vegetables bound in rich homemade mayonnaise. The broth that preceded the main course was deep amber, and in it floated little rounds of pasta. There was fruit, a special cake and little cups of bitter coffee, and between courses the bread crumbs were swept from the table by the maid, into a miniature silver dustpan. After our meal, we slept in darkened bedrooms shuttered against the bright afternoon light.

I guess it was when our cousins drove us to Mondello that I realized I’d never seen anything quite so beautiful and that just maybe, no place on earth could possibly be more beautiful. The water was luminously, brightly aqua, and you could walk right into it--no scary waves or freezing-cold water kept you at a distance from the feel of its welcome embrace.

At this beach resort outside the city, where my mother spent her summers as a young girl, we feasted on thick pizzas made with anchovy and bread crumbs, called sfincione , and drank bitter-orange soft drinks from diminutive bottles. Along the waterfront were stands selling arancini , rice balls plunged in boiling olive oil until they turned golden brown, tiny octopus cooking in large steaming kettles, and spiny sea urchins pried open to reveal their living coral-colored flesh. And it was at Mondello that I first tasted pan e panelle , fried patties of chickpea flour stacked in good Sicilian bread sprinkled with sesame seeds--a mingling of tastes I loved with a passion from the first bite.

My mother took us to the marina, bombed to rubble during the war and sadly, she found, still in the same state of disrepair. Buildings facing the sea looked like Greek ruins in the golden sunshine, empty shells still bearing the marks of war. There she found a street vendor selling a type of sandwich she remembered fondly, made of thinly sliced spleen and fresh warm ricotta, which we children instinctively mistrusted, even though we were told they were filled with roast beef! At night we were driven through dark fragrant streets to eat calzone , unlike anything I’d ever had, which emerged from the wood-burning oven scorched and blistered, filled with melting fresh mozzarella, salty prosciutto and home-preserved artichoke hearts.

I became almost insane with the pleasure of the food I tasted. One day I ate so much Sicilian bread, which I drizzled with good olive oil, drenched in sweet lemon juice, then sprinkled with salt, that a doctor had to be called. He confined me to bed for a few days and restricted my eating to clear broth to calm my aching belly. I greeted this news with a quiet elation, since the clear amber broth I’d spooned into my mouth from an ample Italian soup spoon at Aunt Rubina’s house was one of the best things I’d ever tasted.

We strolled through dusty little parks ringed with dwarf palms, somber carob trees and sweet-smelling oleanders in full, soft bloom. We walked in the shadows of the hot pink domes of the Church of San Giovanni degli Eremiti and visited cathedrals lined with bright mosaics and gleaming gold. Afternoons would find us at outdoor cafes lingering over granitas of black espresso layered with clouds of pure white cream, intensely refreshing and strong enough to make my head spin.

Down a flight of steps was the Vucciria, the central marketplace of Palermo, where shoppers shopped in a kind of frenzy of delight amid the colors and smells, and the beckoning songs of the vendors. There we saw pyramids of glistening olives decorated with sprays of fresh rosemary; whole tuna and swordfish resting on slabs of white marble; steaming caldrons emitting sweet vapors. At the market there were rosticcerie , shops where you could buy fried eggplant and cooked green beans, and plump peppers, freshly roasted and peeled, and trays of pasta baked with veal and peas and topped with a bread-crumb crust, to be bought in squares and taken home to eat in the cool of the evening. And always, in the distance or just around the corner, was the sparkling blue sea.

Naturally the life I saw was only the shining surface. Underneath those bright lives was all the complexity and pain of any life, with loss and betrayal, loneliness, even madness. But after a childhood spent in the confines of a Los Angeles suburb, the beauty and exoticism, the contrast of vibrant activity and voluptuous languor, the Italy I’d tasted left me dazed and a little befuddled. Our summer in Sicily seemed like a dream--so different and far away from the world I knew of matching houses and shrubs and neighbors’ pools. I didn’t realize it then, but I think a part of me went into a kind of slumber until the day I returned to Italy.

This salad was served in my mother’s house in Palermo during the summer months. To keep the house cool, the stoves were kept unlighted. Freshly cooked vegetables would come from the Vucciria market, along with tomatoes and fragrant basil. These were made into a big salad and served with a platter of cheeses for a light evening meal.

SALAD FROM THE VUCCIRIA MARKET (Insalata della Vucciria)

2 onions

3 medium boiling potatoes

1 sweet red pepper

1 yellow pepper

1/2 pound tender green beans

1 large firm tomato

8 basil leaves

5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1/4 cup imported red wine vinegar

Salt

Freshly ground black pepper

Roast onions in 450-degree oven until tender. Remove from oven and let cool. Peel and cut into thick slices.

Meanwhile boil potatoes until tender but firm. Drain and when cool enough to handle, peel and cut into medium dice.

Roast red and yellow peppers over gas burner or under broiler. Peel and remove seeds, cores and white membranes. Cut peppers into thick strips.

Trim ends of green beans. Cook in salted boiling water until tender but crisp. Drain and, if desired, run cold water over green beans to set color. Slice tomato.

Combine onions, potatoes, peppers, green beans and tomato in shallow serving bowl. Tear basil leaves into fragments and sprinkle over top. Drizzle with olive oil and vinegar. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Toss and correct seasoning. Makes 4 servings.

Each serving contains about:

297 calories; 86 mg sodium; 0 cholesterol; 17 grams fat; 35 grams carbohydrates; 4 grams protein; 1.47 grams fiber.

This is a rich salad of neatly diced vegetables bound in Lemon Mayonnaise. Serve it in small portions with lean foods such as chicken or seafood. For special occasions, the salad is a great match for fresh boiled lobster. Red beets are traditionally used for this salad, but because they can bleed on the salad, I use golden beets when I can get them.

INSALATA RUSSA (Russian Salad)

3 small golden beets, all but 1 inch of tops trimmed

2 medium potatoes

1/4 pound tender green beans

1/4 pound tender wax beans

2 small carrots, trimmed and peeled

2 tablespoons finely chopped cornichons

3 tablespoons capers

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

Salt

Freshly ground black pepper

Lemon Mayonnaise

3 to 4 anchovies, finely chopped, optional

Boil beets and potatoes separately in water to cover until tender. Drain and when cool enough to handle, peel.

Cook green beans, wax beans and carrots in separate pots with salted boiling water to cover. Drain when tender and refresh under cold water.

Cut all vegetables into small dice and place in bowl. Add cornichons, capers, olive oil, vinegar and season to taste with salt and pepper. Add enough Lemon Mayonnaise to lightly bind salad, and mix in anchovies. Makes 4 to 6 servings.

Each serving, without anchovies, contains about:

569 calories; 407 mg sodium; 53 mg cholesterol; 52 grams fat; 24 grams carbohydrates; 5 grams protein; 1.30 grams fiber.

Lemon Mayonnaise

1 egg, room temperature

Salt

3/4 cup mild extra-virgin olive oil

Juice 1/2 lemon

In blender combine egg, salt to taste and 2 to 3 tablespoons oil. Blend until mixture is light yellow and frothy. With blender on, add remaining oil in thin stream. If oil begins to pool and is not being absorbed, stop adding oil and continue blending mixture until oil is incorporated. Resume adding oil until mayonnaise thickens.

Add little lemon juice, blend briefly and taste. Continue adding lemon juice and taste until mayonnaise achieves desired strength. Transfer mayonnaise to small bowl. Cover and keep refrigerated. Lasts several days.

Note: Although many recipes call for uncooked eggs, the U. S. Department of Agriculture has found them to be a potential carrier of food-borne illness and recommends that diners avoid eating raw eggs. Commercial egg substitutes may be used in place of raw eggs in certain circumstances. Check egg substitute package for applications.

The ingredients used to top the famous Sicilian pizza sfincione are transformed into a sauce for pasta.

PASTA A SFINCIONE

4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus extra for drizzling

1 cup homemade bread crumbs

2 onions, thinly sliced

10 to 12 anchovies, chopped

1 (28-ounce) can whole peeled tomatoes

Salt

9 ounces dried fettuccine

Place 1 tablespoon olive oil in medium saute pan. Add bread crumbs and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until bread crumbs turn golden brown. Transfer to small bowl.

In large saute pan combine 3 tablespoons olive oil and onions. Cook over medium-low heat until onions are golden and translucent, about 15 minutes. Add anchovies and, over low heat, stir until they melt into onions. Add tomatoes and cook over medium heat until tomatoes thicken. Taste and adjust seasonings, if necessary.

Meanwhile cook pasta in abundant salted boiling water until tender. Reserve about 1/2 cup pasta cooking water. Drain pasta and place in pasta serving bowl. Toss with sauce and drizzle with olive oil. If pasta appears dry, add little of reserved pasta water to moisten. Sprinkle lightly with bread crumbs. Serve with remaining bread crumbs on side. Makes 4 servings.

Each serving contains about:

495 calories; 882 mg sodium; 9 mg cholesterol; 17 grams fat; 72 grams carbohydrates; 15 grams protein; 1.38 grams fiber.

The ultimate summertime refresher. Use high-quality, freshly ground espresso beans.

GRANITA DI CAFFE

3 cups freshly brewed, strong espresso

6 tablespoons sugar or to taste

Freshly whipped unsweetened cream

Pour hot coffee into bowl. Add sugar and stir until it dissolves. Place bowl in freezer until ice crystals begin to form, about 30 minutes. Remove from freezer and stir well, breaking up ice crystals and scraping down any ice crystals that have formed on sides. Return to freezer. Continue to stir every 15 minutes or until coarse sorbet forms.

Layer granita and whipped cream into large dessert goblets, making several layers of granita and cream, ending with whipped cream. Serve immediately. Makes 4 servings.

Each serving contains about:

281 calories; 26 mg sodium; 82 mg cholesterol; 22 grams fat; 21 grams carbohydrates; 1 grams protein; 0 fiber.

A beautiful and exotic watermelon dessert that is a cross between pudding and gelatin. The bittersweet flavor of the chocolate bits (which look a little like watermelon seeds in the finished dish) is a perfect foil for the sugary sweetness of the watermelon. Be sure to use a sweet, flavorful watermelon. And serve the gelo in small dishes--it’s a rich dessert and a few bites go a long way.

GELO DI MELONE

2 1/2 pounds red watermelon

1/4 cup sugar

1/4 cup cornstarch

Dash cinnamon

1 teaspoon rose water, or few drops vanilla

1 1/2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped

2 tablespoons finely chopped raw unsalted pistachios, skinned

Jasmine flowers, optional

Cut watermelon into chunks and remove rind and seeds. Put through food mill or push through sieve to get about 2 cups watermelon juice.

Combine juice, sugar and cornstarch in saucepan and stir until cornstarch completely dissolves. Bring mixture to boil, stirring constantly. Let boil few minutes until mixture is bright red. Stir in cinnamon and jasmine water. Pour into 4 or 5 small dessert goblets. When cool, stir in chocolate bits.

Refrigerate until well-chilled. To serve, sprinkle with pistachios and garnish with jasmine flowers. Makes 4 to 5 servings.

Each serving contains about:

252 calories; 7 mg sodium; 0 cholesterol; 8 grams fat; 46 grams carbohydrates; 4 grams protein; 1.16 grams fiber.