<Sicily>

On Tuesday, May 13, I was scheduled to board a ferry in Hyannis with my car loaded with food for the Nantucket Wine Festival. The howling winds were stirring up the water and the boats remained tied to the dock. When I spoke to the folks on the Island about my concerns (getting there on time and in one piece) they were sympathetic but seemed unruffled. It was Nantucket after all. Their proposed solution seemed totally counter-intuitive and, not to mention, a bit scary to me: a Cessna 8-seater.

My carry-on was an enormous heavy cooler that typically would not have been allowed on the plane, but there were few passengers and the Cape Air crew had been through this before. “We’ll put it behind seat #5”. And we were off. Ironically, it was a clear, smooth ride with only a small bump or two. The winds had moved on to stir things up somewhere else.

On Wednesday morning, I was up at 7:00 am to fish for stripers. It was a fantastic morning—sunny, a gentle wind and warm enough for mid-May. Captain Bob and his assistant Nick, along with David and Adam from Plum TV, were waiting for us on board the Albacore. It was a simple, clean white fishing boat with an unusual screen at the helm which measured the density of what lay below. In particular, fish. I was surprised. It makes sense, of course, that a charter fisherman would have a sensor so he could know where to take his clients to find fish, but it seemed to me to take the mystery and romance out of fishing. I asked, “Do people know about this?” He laughed.

Striped bass play a prominent roll in my memories of summers spent on the Cape. We would cook and eat them on the beach minutes after my father caught them. I had great striper expectations for the Albacore and was already planning my wide-mouthed grin for the trophy shot of me holding a great, big, silvery fish.

We needed mackerel for striper bait. We were using lines with four tiny hooks and light filaments to simulate shrimp. Much to my disappointment, we weren’t doing any fancy dramatic casting. Instead, we braced our legs against the side of the boat so as not to be pitched into Nantucket Sound, held our rods at a 45 angle, and with a weight at the end, we dropped our lines into the water and bobbed them up and down, imitating the movement of shrimp. There was waiting time. We talked about food and wine, what’s your favorite fish, why people don’t like mackerel and what’s the best way to cook them…I felt a tug on the line and reeled it in. I’d caught two beautiful blue mackerel with yellow zebra stripes. I let out at a whoop, a little surprised by my own excitement. Back into the water went the line and we continued catching fish—sometimes four at a time.

But we were still in search of stripers. After switching to heavier rods and maneuvering the Albacore into deeper water above an old wreck of sunken ships, motorcycles and other large objects that were an alleged haven for stripers, we still weren’t catching anything other than mackerel. Captain Bob assured us that stripers don’t bite in such cold water.

As I looked into the bucket holding our catch of 15 or so mackerel I said, “We have to eat these for lunch.” Everyone was game, especially David, the Plum TV director. He and Adam had been so discrete that we’d hardly noticed we were being filmed the whole time. The piece about fishing would now be complete with a “kitchen and table scene” to wrap things up.

Within minutes of arriving back at the dock, we had secured a kitchen at the Yacht Club, a few assistants, and a ride to the market for some additional provisions. Captain Bob had reminisced about the sweet and sour mackerel his Portuguese grandmother used to make for him in New Bedford so I thought we should cook fillets that way in addition to simply grilling them whole.

We sat down to our feast a few minutes after 12:30 and lingered until 2:30. Even though everyone had something to do for the grand opening of the festival that evening, no one wanted to get up from the table. It was a good day.

We're done. We're finished. We're through. We made it to the top and back down again. We shopped and chopped and sliced and grilled and ate. We learned how to "negotiate a Sicilian incline on a bicycle" and that slow-churning helps make Sicilian granitas one of the best things we have ever tasted.

Sicily was more interesting and beautiful than we had even imagined. We must return to visit the salt flats in Trapani, the fish market in Catania (I can't believe we missed it), the ruins in Agrigento, the islands of Pantelleria and Malta, back to Regaleali to make marmalade and tomato paste and on and on and on.

With great thanks, we tip our bicycle helmets to Bike Riders for their outstanding job of putting together this wonderful trip. Our generous and hospitable guides, Dawn and Vernon, were always ready with our bikes, cold water, fresh cherries, salty gorp, insight into how best to handle a particular route, English translations of unusual Sicilian fish and a welcoming, encouraging smile to set us on our way. We enjoyed their company and expertise and recommend finding a way to travel in Italy with them.

Our last days in Sicily took us to the south-central part of the island, near the town of Ragusa. From the Cottanera winery, we drove two hours around the skirt of Mt. Etna and then south amid a landscape dotted with windmills, cows and ancient olive trees. We stayed at the Eremo della Giubiliana, a 16th century "Knights of Malta" monastery converted into a hotel. A monastic vibe echoed between the crisp white-washed walls of the former monks' cells.

We arrived with the winds, a burrasca (or gale force), to be exact. Sicily is often buffeted by lo scirocco, a hot, dry wind from North Africa that leaves a thin dusting of red sand across everything. This wind in Ragusa was different. It was loud, fierce and unrelenting. Instead of depositing sand it seemed to unhinge nerves, rattling spirits. Instead of a dry wind, this was a crazy wind.

After a bit of a restless night, we awoke to the wave-like pounding of urugano winds (that's right, hurricane-force winds, or at least that's what the internet weather report posted by the front desk said). Dawn and Vernon, our fearless guides, decided we would not be cycling today. A wise choice.

Instead, we drove a few kilometers to Ibla, the old part of Ragusa that lies a few kilometers down and then up a deep ravine, below the semi-bustling modern town of Ragusa Superiore. In 1693 an earthquake shook Ibla, destroying much of the ancient Greek and Roman village. The town was rebuilt in the early 18th century in a Baroque-style with fanciful church facades and honey-colored buildings.

We arrived early, around 10:00 am, and everything was closed or just barely opening. Strolling along smooth stone streets, peaking into a bakery, a corner store, and a café, we were greeted by stony Iblan faces. We meandered up the hillside and down streets of abandoned, derelict houses. It felt like a ghost town, a stage-set. Had the wind gotten to everyone? It was beginning to get to us.

We did manage to find a dark café that sold strong espresso and sweet sigarette or rolled, tuille-like sweets filled with gianduja and sprinkled with almonds.

A semolina bread pouch stuffed with grilled eggplant and onion and a typical Iblan scacce or baked layers of pasta dough slathered with thick tomato paste and ricotta cheese tided us over until our evening meal at the Michelin-starred "Duomo" restaurant in Ibla.

At Duomo, we feasted on course after course, enjoying tomato sorbet with a smooth basil olive oil, dolphin fish encrusted with pistachios, spaghetti with sea urchin and asparagus, cod wrapped in lard on a bed of rough heirloom polenta and a café gelatin with cardamom ice cream. Chef Ciccio Sultano uses classic Sicilian ingredients, like almonds, ricotta and tuna, in unusual ways. For a tradition-bound culinary culture like Sicily’s, this is a refreshing treat.

After an early rise, we packed, checked out of our hotel in Taormina and got back in the saddle by 8:45 am. We “negotiated a few rolling hills” (the current euphemism for huffing and puffing up a mountain), and pedaled through a town called Castiglione where a man and his son were selling buckets of loquats. The fruit was perfectly sweet. The men gave us a bag full of them and told us about a loquat festival.

With sticky hands we got back on the bikes and rode through fragrant orange and lemon groves. Next stop was a small bakery where they made bread in a wood-burning oven. We bought panini with olive bread, local salami and marinated mushrooms for a picnic later in the day at the Cottanera winery.

With snowy Mount Etna at our backs, we continued on and stopped to marvel at a gorge made centuries ago from molten Etna lava.

Crisp water cut through the lava bank, softening the edges, and creating silvery-grey waves of rock accented with pink, yellow and white wild flowers.

A final, steep hill stood between us and lunch. Finally, we arrived and sat down to a long, welcoming table of wine glasses, bowls of provolone and pecorino, salami, a semolina bread, fantastic spicy sun-dried tomatoes with capers, our panini and left-over arancini, caponata and saffron peppers from our antipasti class the previous day. We sipped a floral Cottanera white wine called Babazzale made with Inzolia grapes that had a hint of green apple. The meal was a perfect end to a long ride. Sleepy and full, we piled into the van and drove south to Ragusa.

No one wanted to leave our antipasti lunch, but the bikes beckoned, so off we went on a ride through the Valley of the Agro and up, up, up to the hill-top town of Savoca.

The first leg of the ride was a steep descent of tight switchback after switchback. We then rode through sleepy towns along the sea. Finally, we began a 3K ascent, meeting those wretched switchbacks once again, this time in a lower gear. Two fat Italian bikers past us pointing uphill yelling, “Duro, duro.” When we didn’t turn around, one threw his hands up into the air with histrionic exasperation. It was about a 40-minute ride and it wasn’t easy, but we were all determined to make it, and we did. Dawn’s lesson served me well—low and slow was the way to go. My legs wobbled when I reached Savoca at the top, but I wasn’t winded.

The elegant and rural wedding scene in the Godfather had been filmed in this tiny town. We enjoyed cool lemon granitas at the bar where Michael Corleone first met Apollonia. As we hungrily slurped up the slushy ice, we listened to the orchestral theme song to the movie on a continuous loop. An old, leathery woman kept watch over her café with a stern look as we regained our energy and headed back down the hill.

The ride down was fun and breezy. At the bottom, we hopped onto a funicular that took us back up to the town of Taormina where we stretched, showered, ate a light pizza and slept like stones.

Our second cooking class focused on Sicilian antipasti and took place at the restaurant “Al Duomo” in Taormina. The kitchen was small, the knives were dull and space on the cutting boards sparce, but we had the run of the place and the chef (son of the owner) and the manager (nephew of he owner) were incredibly generous, gracious and both named Natale. Some sat in the dining room around the table, while others squeezed into the kitchen. Wendy diced eggplant, Jim halved cherry tomatoes, the other Jim pitted olives, Kathy peeled favas, Liezie tried to keep the lumps out of the chick pea batter, Thelma cleaned the artichokes, Gordy grated cheese, Flora sliced the zucchini, and Catherine fried sage leaves.

The place buzzed, they were in a rhythm, reaching across for ingredients as they chatted and cooked, after all this was their second time in the kitchen together and they were pros.

Gathering on the terrace for lunch was luxurious. We were the only ones there and the sun was shining. We tried to eat lightly in anticipation of hopping back on the bikes for our ride to Savoca, little did we know we would be burning more calories than we consumed.

Crunchy vegetable salad from the markets of Taormina

This is a salad to make when these vegetables are at their peak and fresh from the garden since they are served raw. The thinner they’re sliced, the better the flavor and texture.

Feel free to add capers, olives, herbs or anything that strikes your fancy. It would be a fabulous addition to a meal of grilled fish and crusty bread.

1 lemon
4 small artichokes,
10-12 anchovy fillets
3 tablespoons minced garlic
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
2 cup evoo
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 stalks celery, peeled and thinly sliced on the diagonal
1 zucchini, thinly sliced
1 head chicory lettuce, washed, dried and broken into small pieces
1 head fennel, trimmed of tough outer leaves and thinly sliced
1 medium red onion, very thinly sliced
Shaved aged Sicilian pecorino cheese

Scrub the lemon and cut in half. One at a time, trim 1/2 inch off the crown of each artichoke and snap off the outer leaves, until only tender yellow leaves remain. Trim away the tip of the stem and peel the stem itself. Cut in half and remove the choke. As you finish each artichoke, rub the cut spots with the lemon half to prevent the flesh from turning brown. When the artichokes are done, squeeze the remaining juice from the Rinse the anchovies, pat dry and finely chop.

If using salted anchovies, soak for 10 minutes or so to remove the salt. In any case, rinse and pat dry. Mix the anchovies with the garlic. Add the vinegar and mix well. Whisk in the evoo. Season with salt and pepper, taking care with the salt if you used salted anchovies.

Drain the artichokes, pat dry and transfer to a large salad bowl. Add the remaining vegetables and toss together well. Season with salt and pepper. Add dressing and toss again. If you don’t need all the dressing, save for another use. Sprinkle cheese over the top.

It’s a good thing I didn’t have time before we left to carefully research what the terrain is like here because if I’d realized just what “rolling hills meant”, I would have really fretted. Rolling hills in a car and rolling hills on a bike are two very different things. The first doesn’t involve your thighs. We climbed and climbed and climbed. Dawn, our lovely Bike Riders guide, patiently rode with me and gave uphill tips riding—use a harder gear and pedal more slowly. Work with the hill instead of fighting it. The payoff was that I was less tired, winded and cranky by the time I reached the lighthouse at the peak of our ride. I was able to really see the little flowering plants growing out of the caper-colored rock faces on the road and the abundance of wild flowers—yellow, red, purple, white, orange and pink along the way that was almost too distracting. The air was thick with smells from the flowering Acacia trees and wild fennel. And then there were the views of the crystal aquamarine water with the emerging volcanic rock islands.

We passed through little towns with snowy white washed angular houses trimmed in blue and orange with clean laundry on the line. Bright red poppies grew between rows of gnarly bent vines with new growth. Boats leaned everywhere. Dogs barked.

After yet one more climb, we finished our riding day at a seaside village on the island of Salina (one of the seven Aeolian islands) where we stopped to eat the most amazing granita I’ve ever tasted. It was simply sugar and a little water mixed with whatever flavor was on the menu: ground almonds or pistachios, fresh strawberries, melon, blackberries or espresso. We talked to the owner about his old ice cream machines that churned at just the right speed to make the slushy granita texture. We listened closely as he described the process so that we could try to replicate it back home.

The world's best granita - cafe and almond, pistachio and almond and strawberry and lemon

We hopped back on our boat and headed to Lipari from Salina. Our captain steered us into the harbor.

Back on Lipari, on Tuesday, the unofficial mayor of Lipari, Bartolo, brought us to his favorite fish market and vegetable stands for ingredients for our cooking class at his mother’s restaurant La Nassa.

At La Nassa, Donna Teresa, also known as “Mamma,” reigned her kitchen with an eagle eye, a sharp tongue and a strict sense of the way one cooks on Lipari– maccheroncini would never be served with bottarga, never fry anything with fancy extra virgin olive oil because it will destroy her pans. She had a sparkling clean kitchen and was gracious to let us take it over as we prepared our feast.

I divided our group into teams—antipasti, secondi and contorni/dolci (the Mamma was in charge of the pasta course). As we reviewed the menu, many in the group stood wide-eyed with wonder and fear over the number of different dishes on the menu. “Did we really have time for all of this?” , their expressions said. The jammed packed kitchen snapped into a buzz of activity as we got to work shucking peas, opening mussels, making cannoli dough, shaving bottarga, slicing, chopping, mincing and more.

We sat down around 9:00 pm for dinner with all 12 of our completed dishes (plus the macheroncini from Mamma). We had done it all!

Antipasti
Anchovies crudo and agrodolce
Grilled mussels with extra virgin olive oil and cracked pepper
Bruschetta with zucchini and bottarga
Grilled artichokes
Oyster mushrooms with garlic and parsley
Ricotta al forno

Secondi
Swordfish involtini with raisins and pine nuts
Grilled fish with salmorigano and tomato-saffron vinaigrette
Clams with garlic, tomatoes and parsley

Contorni
Stufato with basil and grated pecorino
Fennel and orange salad with olives and cedro

Dolci
Cannoli “undone” with ricotta, pistachio, chocolate chips and strawberries

The Regaleali estate is in central Sicily, a 1 ½ hour drive from Palermo through gently rolling hills with patchwork farmland, small herds of sheep and mustard fields. It is the country home of Anna Tasca Lanza and her husband, the Marchese Vencelslao Lanza. Anna met Vencelslao at her coming-out ball in Palermo nearly 50 years ago. She says he was he most magnificent one there. We believe it. At 80 years old, the Marchese looks the part of the last surviving gentiluomo of Sicily, as Fabrizia (their daughter) calls him.

Anna started a cooking school in 1989 in the kitchen of the Case Vecchie of Regaleali. It was her intention to celebrate and preserve the local peasant cuisine and the culinary traditions of the great Sicilian monzu of the aristocratic families. These stories and recipes are documented in Anna’s cookbooks. She has also written about native and endangered Sicilian botanicals, like winter loquats and carob. Fabrizia has returned to Regaleali to collaborate with her mother and father after years of raising a family, curating art exhibits and traveling.

We had an amazing time there. We arrived at Regaliali at 2:30…both the phone and the internet were not functioning so we had not been able to let them know ahead of time when we’d be arriving. We made our way through the gates, into a courtyard and followed voices and cooking aromas to a screen door. Gianni, Fabrizia’s boyfriend, the Marchese and Fabrizia were still in the kitchen but we had just missed Anna who had gone to rest after lunch. Even though lunch was over and the table was being cleared, the whole process was reversed and two places were set for us. We were poured some white wine, started with a lovely chunky agrodolce caponata with whole green olives, and a plate of roasted, peeled red peppers. Red wine appeared and we moved on to a torta of annelletti with ragu and tomato sauce, rabbit cooked in vinsanto and a fennel and lettuce salad. To finish us off, we were given a slice of cassata.

I felt like we were in one of the stories about characters showing up, during the off season, at the door of a famous restaurant without a reservation and after hours. The chef insists that she cook you a meal. She sits down and and it all goes on for hours

On our post-lunch walk up and down the rolling Regaleali hills, we met a herd of white sheep. They weren’t alone. A Shepard followed on his blue vespa with a wooden cane which he sat on as he herded his flock.

The next day we watched Fabrizia and her Mom give a cooking class to a group of Americans. They prepared a typical Sicilian fritto misto with asparagus, mushrooms, artichokes, beans and more.

We enjoyed the quiet, cool nights in central Sicily as guests of the gracious Tasca Lanza family. The estate is worth a visit. We certainly hope to return.

Catherine and I took different flights so I arrived in Palermo several hours before her. Taking a taxi in a new place is for wimps , figuring out the public transportation system tests strength and persistence. I chose the bus into Palermo from the airport.

The bus driver was the first person I encountered in Italy. He thought I wouldn’t notice that he hadn’t given me change for my 10 euro note. But I persisted and got my 4.70 euors back. When Catherine arrived hours later without baggage she encountered her own struggles at the airport. But we knew better than to generalize about the Palermitani based on our first impressions.

On Thursday it was il primo maggio, the workers’ holiday in Italy, and probably all over Europe. I love arriving in a new city or town on a holiday. You see it in its sleepy pared down state. Palermo was quiet save for pockets of noisy celebration.

In the day families grilled outside their houses. At night things livened up. We saw a parade of tattooed and pierced young people dancing behind flatbed trucks blaring reggae, hip-hop and dance music demonstrating for homeless rights.

I headed for the market in search of a spleen sandwich and found a sausage sandwich instead. Peering down an alley, I saw a man (Antonio Leto, it turned out) grilling sardines and fennel and pork sausages on a tiny iron stand. When I asked if I could take a picture, he said yes, without looking up, and offered me a coke. An international sign of hospitality. Through the window his wife (Antonina) appeared laughing. Where was I from? What was my name? And did I want some bread, too? Her three grown children appeared. In the end, I was sitting on a chair, near the grill, feasting on a sausage sandwich with a squeeze of lemon and a grilled sardine. Before I left, Antonio had buried artichokes amidst the charcoal. I promised to return later with Catherine to try them.

Our visit to the Ballaro market was brimming with freshly caught (312 kilo) tuna, tiny, slithering snails, six varieties of artichokes, mile-long squashes, every type of innard, a smoking butcher, fresh eggs, loquats, unusual tomatoes, mounds of tomato paste, baked ricotta, unblemished favas, nikes, proud fishmongers, panelle and spleen sandwiches.

Our first impressions of the Sicilians were swept aside by encounters with friendly and generous Palermitani. We were welcomed with opened arms by the Letos and their mixed grill feast. And sent on our way the next day by Cettina who saw us looking a bit lost. She gave us directions, took us to her newly-frescoed church and insisted that we allow her to pick us up at the train station whenever we returned to Palermo. We have her number.

We arrived in Boston at the airport and ran into the formidably knowledgeable Nancy Harmon Jenkins. She was taking the same flight to Rome and then was on to Tuscany to her house in Cortona. In the security line before we boarded we grilled her for Sicilian tips: stay away from the touristy Vucciria market in Palermo but don't miss the Ballaro and Capo markets. The coastal town of Mondello just outside Palermo is worth a visit as well.

Thanks to Carolyn (of CJ Sunday fame), we had amazing food on the plane. How lucky we were. She had packed us a fabulous picnic of baby chciken, borlotti beans with octopus, farro with mushrooms, salami, two cheeses and some tuscan bread. Even the airplane red wine tasted good with the meal.