The lure of the market

A couple of weeks ago I was thumbing through a back issue of Vanity Fair, and came across the monthly 60 Minutes/Vanity Fair Poll.  One of the questions asked:

“If one of the folling things could happen to you without any effort on your part, which one would you pick?”

a.     Receive $10,000 tax free

b.     Get a college or advanced degree

c.      Become fluent in another language

d.     Be one year younger

e.     Lose 10 pounds

For once, my instinctive, immediate answer was not practical or pragmatic.  I would become fluent in another language.  Italian.  It is, hands down, the most beautiful language, both the way the words sound and the rhythmic musicality with which people speak it.  I find it soothing somehow, whether the person speaking it is arguing or singing.  It lulls me. Exhibit A: the other evening at the agriturismo, the kids were running around outside with some Italian kids.  C.C. popped into our room to ask me how to say “firefly” in Italian.  I looked it up on my iPad.  The word is lucciola.  I ask you, is there any other language that has a more beautiful word for firefly?

And, if I could speak Italian fluently, I would have the added incentive of coming to Italy more often.  Maybe I could even get work here…  Perhaps in my dotage I’ll take Italian classes at the New School with all of the other crazy old ladies in the village.  (As for the poll, more people than you might think—39%--would take the $10k tax free, which is added proof that our economy is in the tank and more people than ever are living on the edge.   Either that or they are just pissed off that their supply of cheap credit has disappeared and what they really want is a good shop.)

When we emerged from our bedrooms after a good sleep, we were practically blasted out of the kitchen by Goth rock blaring out in the hallway.  I poked my head out and saw that the door of the apartment across the way was open and seemed to be under renovation; it must be the workers, I thought.  But when Alec went to investigate awhile later, he found the door next to us wide open as well.  Mrs. Scuderi, the elderly woman who lives there, waved at him from the neat little table in the living room, where she sat.  It seemed incongruous, but the music was clearly coming from her apartment.  We asked Giorgio, the owner of our apartment , about it later on when he came to collect the rent money from us.  He shrugged and pointed to his temple as if to say that Mrs. Scuderi is a few cards short of a deck.

We went back to the market, as it was supposed to be in full swing on Monday; it was.  We had not intended to purchase any fresh food, but before we were halfway down the row of stands, Alec had decided to replicate the pasta C.C. had had at Sicilia in Tavola two nights earlier—it had melted cheese and cherry tomatoes, and he would add little local clams for us.  The cheese is from the nearby town of Ragusa—it’s called ragusana, and the younger variety melts beautifully.  We also bought enormous lemons the size of Nerf footballs (see below) and sweet oranges for a citrus salad.  (It turns out the lemons are mostly pith, with about the same amount of fruit as a normal lemon—no wonder people were buying 4, 6 or more of them).  Buying the produce, Alec heard a man’s cellphone ring.  The ringtone?  The theme from the Godfather.  I couldn’t make it up.

At Caseificio Borderi—a small shop with a stand outside, I asked a young man working there to taste one of the cheeses in the case.  Before I knew it, a much older man behind the counter presented me with a two bite salami and cheese sandwich on lovely fresh bread.  He pointed to the cheese I had asked to taste and smiled.  It was delicious—creamy and a little bit pungent, and the salami a little bit spicy.  Of course I bought the cheese.  But just as I was fishing for my money, a woman appeared from within the shop carrying a tray of just-filled cannolis, the ends dipped in chopped almonds.  I pointed at those, too, and my sandwich tantalizer wrapped one in a piece of brown paper; he knew I would eat it right then and there.  I did.  Fresh ricotta has to be one of the dairy products that makes my mouth happiest.  I am so grateful that the good stuff is pretty widely available now—how can it be that we all spent years eating that supermarket crap that lasts way too long in the fridge to be trustworthy?  I couldn’t decide whether the market cannoli, or the one from Sicilia in Tavola was better.  It didn’t really matter.

We bought honey, pistachio pesto, olive oil, and chocolate from Modica at Fratelli Burgio, just at the end of the market near the sea.  Fratelli Burgo, like many restaurants, has also been anointed as a purveyor of slow foods.  Apparently the slow food program is growing to include shops, bakeries, and producers of local foodstuffs.  The clerk packed all of the bottles for airline travel.

We went to the ruins over the bridge in the afternoon, and then let the kids loose in a local playground.  We ate our pasta and citrus salad for dinner, and broke up one of the chocolate bars—the one with pepperoncini, from Antica Dolceria Bonajuto—for dessert.  Chocolate from Modica, which is about an hour from here, is well-known for its quality and distinctive texture, but I had read that many producers calling themselves artisanal are anything but.  Bonajuto and Casa Don Puglisi are known to be reliable chocolatiers who add nothing superfluous, use quality beans, and melt the chocolate at very low temperatures, which is one of the hallmarks of Modica chocolate.  The chocolate itself has an almost grainy consistency—it reminds me of the texture of the disks of Mexican chocolate you can buy to make Mexican hot chocolate; Abuelita is one brand.  I have always eaten the Mexican chocolate straight up as well as melting it; chocolate from Modica is like that, only better quality.

Another successful food day in Sicily.