photo courtesy: baroquesicily.com
I am reading a new book, “Coming Home to Sicily” by Fabrizia Lanza. Just now I began looking at the chapter on Spring, after loving the photos of the sheep and stories of the sheep’s milk cheese, tuma, or first cheese. I adore the narrative in this book – it makes me yearn for living this life – at least some of the time!
This passage just says it all for me and makes me even more excited for our trip there in May:
“This is the moment when spring comes out in all its rainbow glory and the land is covered with a tangle of sweet peas, wild roses, bright red poppies and tulips, yellow dyer’s broom, purple French honeysuckle, stalks of wild fennel and the spiky pink and yellow blooms of cardoons.”
What do you see in your head as you read this? I see bliss and heaven! And this sends me in all directions of pleasant memory……
I love that in Sicily, as in so many parts of Italy, people live their work – it’s not an occupation that you hurry up and finish so you can go home and relax and do what you really want to do, you live a life you love, day in, day out, year in, year out. It often makes me wonder about the order of things and the sadness of people who never get to do what they really want to do.
Here is an enticing offer: http://www.bristol.ac.uk/botanic-garden/education/sicily-letter.pdf
I am constantly searching around for the places where the seasons seem to bloom well ahead of ours or last way past ours, in an effort to find a new home in which to ensconce myself. For all of those who put out as reason with themselves that the land of 4 extreme seasons, such as here in NJ, makes the sweet seasons all the more valued, I toss that right out the window – why deprive yourself when you can live the life you need to feel great and which affords you the most inspiration and joy? – isn’t is just better to live where it is glorious most or all of the time, or according to your definition of glorious?
I will most probably be blah-blah-blahhing about Spring for the next many moons……. I just can’t help myself. Being that I am 1/4 “Primavera”, I am claiming at least some partial right to it (Spring and blah-blah-blahhing about it). I hope you share maybe just a little of this enthusiasm………
My obsession with plant life came early, as I was drawn to the garden to follow my Father around as he first, evaluated the earth, scoped out the shape and contour of his modest plots, determined if any alterations were needed, and later, when the soil was warm enough, cradled his seeds in his handsome hands and tenderly allowed them to fall into the shallow “v” he had drawn with an old popsicle stick. Carefully sifted top soil was drizzled on top, all was patted down gently, and watered-in with his old galvanized watering can with a dented rose. Lime from an old 1 lb coffee can was delicately applied in a precise circle around his tomato plants. This regimen was repeated, year after year, and he relished the days of watching his seedlings, until such time as tying, staking, pruning and other general maintenance were in order. The fruits of his labors were lovely and he, with the very assidousness of someone in love with his task, evaluated progress daily. Yet, I can’t help believing there was some degree of conflict in the relative satisfaction of the process vs the fruits and the beginning vs the end. Later, when it was the end, I could sense his letdown and disappointment, as all was removed and turned over with an old spade and iron rake. All of his undertakings out-of-doors seemed second-nature to him as if he was instinctively drawn there, as part of the pull of nature, like the tides. I feel that way as well. My Dad was such a visual person, taking great pleasure at the design of things and instantly seeing perfect and imperfect form. The garden was one place where he could both indulge his passions and lose himself in work, and, contentedly be fastidious in his orientation. Most of the rest of his life seemed fraught with frustration and anxiety.
Later, when I was old enough, I was given my own place in the yard to begin. I seemed to gravitate to flowers, not a surprise, and Thumbelina and Cut and Come Again Zinnias were de rigueur. My modest knowledge of plants did not deter me as I started off without any sophisticated plant knowledge. Of course, these were just about the easiest seeds to plant and have success with. Later I tried a lot of other flower seeds and plants and somehow invited some kind of invasive species into my space. I spent the next many years trying to eradicate whatever it was. I loved Hollyhocks and other tall, spired plants, still do, always being enchanted with the cottage garden motif – and had relatively good success. I wasn’t really too picky about what was sewn – I was all into the overall effect, when they came into bloom. I am still more in favor of a random garden design than a formal one – just being enchanted with riots and masses of great and strong color.
I can still see myself, back then, knees brown and scuffed, arranging small rocks as a border, weeding with and old garden fork and fingers, and imagining what was to come. What the earth can provide in terms of satisfaction, proliferation and beauty still astounds me. I still love the entire process of life in the garden (well, except weeding) and often give in to the impulse of buying new plants, as this gives me such great pleasure. In fact, bringing new plants home, finding their place and planting and caring for them is one of the most favorite things I do. It’s like somehow I get a small chance to possess beauty, if only for awhile. In an effort to satisfy myself in these early weeks of the emerging season, I’ve been spending a lot of time looking at last year’s garden pictures. Each time I do, I wonder how I can possibly undertake to live another Winter here without a glorious life outside to relish in. (I am missing my morning glories so.)
Well, it is with much sadness and yearning that I think about my Dad, now. For many years I avoided what few delicate and precious memories I have of him. For, all of his passions evaporated early and he descended away. So sad, for he was a person of intense creative interests, little formal advanced education, yet possessed a dignity, sensitivity and intelligence that few ever saw. I am indebted to what he taught me in such a short period of time, and for the genetic orientation to the out-of-doors that was surely his. I do hope he is still happily gardening somewhere up in the sky.
I am so anxious to go to Sicily in May, for I have never been. I will most probably be missing the almond blossoms, but that is just a good excuse to go back again. I am anxious to see the faces of the people there, to see their love of their land and to experience their cooking and customs first hand. This is a longtime dream, as is my yearning to visit every square inch of Italy, not just once, but over and over again. Call me crazy, but I am compelled, and driven. Until then, I will keep busy here and, as soon as I can, go outside and begin to till the soil, and lose myself, yet again as the cycle that is this year begins.
I can’t quite say why these two topics have emerged intertwined today. They just did, and I am glad. I am not exactly sure how much Sicilian blood courses through my veins, but I am happy knowing that just a little does, coming from my dear Grandmother Nonni.
Some reading:
The Times of Sicily
http://sicilyscene.blogspot.com/2011/08/best-book-ive-read.html
Spring in Sicily – Food From An Ancient Island by Manuela Darling-Gansser
Seeking Sicily: A Cultural Journey Through Myth and Reality in the Heart of the Mediterranean by John Keahey
And, in celebration of the season of Saint Joseph’s Day:
SFINCE DI SAN GIUSEPPE (Fried Puffs with Honey) – courtesy Coming Home to Sicily:
1 cup water
5 tblsp unsalted butter, cut into pieces
fine sea salt
1/2 tsp baking soda
2 cups all purpose flour
6 eggs, at room temperature
vegetable oil, for frying
1 cup honey, warmed
24 pieces candied orange peel, for garnish
Combine the water butter, and a pinch of salt in a saucepan and cook over medium heat until the butter melts and the water boils rapidly. Add the baking soda (the mixture will bubble up), then add the flour and stir vigorously until well combined and the mixture pulls away from the sides of the pan. Remove from the heat and cool.
When the mixture has cooled completely, transfer it to the bowl of an electric mixer and beat the eggs in one at a time, beating until very smooth.
Heat 2 inches of oil in a large heavy skillet. Spoon out almond-size pieces of dough and carefully push them off the spoon with your fingers into the hot oil. Fry, several at a time, but do not crowd the skillet; the puffs need room to turn as they swell (the puffs will triple in size). Cook, turning with a skimmer or tongs, until golden brown on all sides, about 3 minutes. Drain on paper towels. Fry the remaining puffs in batches, letting the oil get hot again before starting each new batch. With tongs, dip the puffs in the warmed honey and garnish with a piece of candied orange peel.
Ah…… the wonders of choux!!!!!!!!