Sicily: Part Two (Palermo and some of Ancient Sicily)

The chronology of our Sicily trip is a bit out of order in these two posts but I'm trying to remain focused on a few themes related to gardening and the green spirit. "Buon divertimento!"

Cucuzza squash in the Mercato di Capo in Palermo. 

We'd planned to drive into Palermo twice during our time in Sicily but a food poisoning incident put an end to that plan two days before we were scheduled to fly to Rome. What's worse is that I'd intended to spend that last day at the botanical garden but all I could do was vow to return. What's a girl to do? Seriously.

This meant that we had to leave the island with only a few memories of the chaotic città di Palermo, but at least we saw the catacombs and il Mercato di Capo. My other hope all along had been to visit a market in Palermo and somehow we landed at one of the largest quite by accident.

Ok, maybe it was fate after all, a big hug from my Sicilian family from beyond the grave...

My great-grandpa Frank Amato with a cucuzza he grew in his garden in SE Portland. Since it's much colder here in Oregon than in Sicily I know this was a triumph for him. I'm sure this photo was taken to always remember this accomplishment. 

All I could think about that day in Palermo was my family. Everything I saw as I looked around brought color and life back into the black & white photos I'd grown up seeing. This awakening of snapshots invigorated me and although I walked beside my husband, I knew then as I know now that this experience was my own and I embraced every awkward moment of it. (Honestly, he'd bought a platter of pastries and was reliving his own Italian childhood as we walked through the market that day.) There we were walking together reliving our own memories yet his were real and mine were only the half-imagined stuff of stories, old photos, and dreams mixed with raw emotions. I wanted so badly to be a little girl walking beside my great-uncle Charlie (holding his hand), or to be with his best-friend, cousin Joe.

It felt strange to be in Sicily alone.

Il Mercato di Capo.

Yet, that was the beginning of an ongoing chain of epiphanies for me as I walked through the market.

Any American with a strong tie to another culture can make choices—either cut their ties and let the past remain the past or inject new life into it. I've always straddled my Italian-American identity and dealing with being bi-cultural in Oregon in the 1980s was not easy. Countless times Americans have told me I wasn't Italian enough to be Italian and they were wrong. Children should never have to grow up defending their identity. They have no idea how painful and damaging those words were to me.

Besides, Italians don't quantify their identity, they qualify it. That's why I have a blood right (jus sanguinis) entitling me to Italian citizenship. I've been given that choice by my bloodline. In Italy it doesn't matter how much Italian blood you possess, what matters is what you do with the heritage that's been passed on to you through birth.

As a girl I'd looked at photos with family members and I'd been told that these were a part of who I was and of my identity but I know now the damage that can do over time. I was always confused because those photos weren't of my life in the 1980s with a mother who wasn't in the least bit Sicilian and with two brothers who in no way cared about any of this.

We're the American generation that really is able to choose to be called American but I'm the only one of my siblings who's chosen to remain hyphenated. This is what happens in bi-cultural and bi-racial families. Individuals must be allowed to decide who and what they're going to be and the family fabric will change.

I wish I had siblings like me, but I don't, and honestly, we're not that close. For me it's always felt like a cultural rift or divide but it's difficult to say.

Instead of dwelling, I've lived my own independent life and have chosen to remain Italian through my marriages and I'm pleased now to have an Italian mother-in-law. It's the way my life is, has been, and will be. I'm happier now than I've ever been. I love to cook and garden. I have an undying love for produce and fresh food. And when I wake up I drink my coffee and spend a lot of time everyday thinking of making new dishes for the many friends I invite to eat at my table.

Seeing a market in Sicily one day can make all of this happen if you're the right kind of person in need of that kind of emotional catharsis. I've been crying out for that experience for so long and it's sad I had to wait for so long and travel so far but I'm a better person now.

Ok, now back to our regularly scheduled programming…

This mosaic floor depicts the bountiful harvests available on the island during the era of the Roman Empire.  Many of the orchards had been planted by the Greeks centuries before so there was already an agricultural system in place. 

Leading up to that epiphany in the market we'd spent the day before driving from Termini to the Villa Romana del Casale in the interior of the island. The villa contains the largest collection of Roman mosaics in the world and is an UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The "bikini girls" is by far the most famous mosaic work in the complex. Seeing it in person was a highlight of the trip for me. It was absolutely nothing like I had imagined. The figures are quite large and they're more real when seeing them in person. The shading on the leg muscles was much better than I'd remembered seeing in books.

I also noticed all of the botanical bits and pieces as we walked through the entire complex. Recounting what I knew about the meaning of each plant as we looked at the mosaics was interesting to John. Although he has a Master's degree in history, with an empasis on the Italian Renaissance, he'd never read much about ancient Rome and Italy. It was fun sharing with him.

Nowhere in Rome will you see anything quite like the Villa Romana del Casele. It's huge and very well preserved. Walking on walkways overlooking all of the rooms and floors was a brilliant design plan too. You see so much!

It really made me long to return to my days as a student of art and landscape history. I'd once worked hard to specialize in ancient art, philosophy, and history. Using my knowledge while there though really enriched the experience for me. John left knowing a lot more about Italy's flora and the history of it too although we both still have so much more we want to learn.

Driving several hours though the countryside, stopping in the road for a shepherd and his flock of sheep, and chatting all day with John about his impressions of the place made for a dream-like day. We still had one more stop though.

We drove for a few more hours to Agrigento, on the southern coast of Sicily. This is where you'll find the Valle dei Templi. In addition to being a national monument in Italy, it's also one of the best places in the world for Ancient Greek architecture. 

The temples are above the valley, along a ridge. As we drove into town they were difficult to miss. The view from the road below was truly breathtaking and I was left speechless. I've had few spiritual moments in my life, but that afternoon was truly a spiritual pilgrimage for me. 

Yes, there was an attached garden too but its gate was closed. 

And it was so lovely that in the middle of the ancient Greek temples, catacombs, and necropolis you'll find this humble home built by an Englishman by the name of Hardcastle who came to "save" the temples. I will not get onto the topic of what other Europeans have done in Italy in regards to preserving the history of the ancient and artistic heritage we all seemingly share, but I'm certainly of the opinion that this lovely eyesore should have been built somewhere else—oh, and that England should hand back the Elgin Marbles to Athens. 

(I also highly recommend the novel Nike: A Romance by Nicholas Flokos. It's a love story like no other concerning the repatriation of the Winged Victory statue in the Louvre.)

This should probably make my sentiments and opinion quite clear. 

Here I am standing in front of the Temple of Concordia.

It is sad to me that John does not share my interest in the ancient world, but he has other things to buoy his interest up north and happily we ended up learning a lot from one another. 

Life is a funny thing and we all need our own raison d'être as the French like to say. I think it's important that we each find our own and respect others'.  There truly are so many options out there that make life truly worth living. 

As we walked back to the car, I spotted this sign and glimpsed over to the area it was describing.

Only exhaustion at this point kept me away.

I wanted the signs to tell me more—so much more.

But my body was in no mood to make the descent.

I definitely need to study more and return refreshed and prepared to Sicily.

We drifted from that ancient universe to Palermo and then to Cefelù after several trips into Termini. The days truly all blend together now. 

That evening in Cefalù I purchased seeds at this shop for my mother-in-law and myself and it was a bit like a candy store for me. All the necessary new Italian vocabulary I needed to communicate with other gardeners was there on the shelves. 

(This is not vocabulary you learn in your regular Italian language course.) 

Then I ate something that gave me food poisoning and the trip took a turn. 

John and I after a day of bed rest due to food poisoning. Our nausea made walking difficult but we made it down to the common area at least. 

Our last full day in Sicily was spent recovering from the food poisoning. John only had three bites of the aranchi rice ball that made me so sick so at least he empathized. We were both unable to move much that day so we just processed what we'd seen so far and John and I talked about what was yet to come.

Wild native Gladiolus italicus growing in the olive orchard. 

I wandered around where we'd been staying to take more plant pics and after John returned to our room, I sat with the Sicilian tourists at the restaurant below our lodgings and soaked up their noise as I wrote to friends back home using the Wifi connection.

The day-trip tourists ate daily at the restaurant and then danced to loud music and talked to one another. (Yes, Sicilians love agroturismo too and they'd all paid to take a bus to artichoke country to spend time basking in the harvest.) We were largely ignored as outsiders, but that last day it changed for me.

The day before I'd heard an old man on the patio playing traditional Sicilian music with his mandolin. My heart had seriously skipped a beat. That day he was back. The tourists piled onto the buses and only he and I were on the patio. He hobbled over to me and sat down speaking Sicilian dialect as he slowly crossed the distance. Looking right into his eyes, I pieced my words together carefully.

I told him in broken Italian I understood him but did not speak well. He shifted to Italian.

I pointed at his mandolin and said to him (in broken Italian), "the music of my great-grandparents".

He asked me if I was Sicilian. I said yes. He asked me my name. I said Amato because that's what a Sicilian means if he's asking about your name. He wants to know the name of your family. He asked where my family was from and I said Termini.

Cha-ching!

And that's the key to opening up a Sicilian. He smiled a wide smile and his eyes lit up. Then he asked what my mother was and I said "American". As is usual, he told me that was ok and then he played music for me and sang. He apologized for his playing and blamed his age. He told me he lived nearby and was widowed and alone. He walked to the restaurant when he could for the exercise.

Then we talked about Oregon. He was shocked that Sicilians so long ago had moved so far away. This was not the first time I'd heard this either. I didn't have the heart to tell him that they'd avoided other Sicilians in the United States intentionally. At least that's what I'd been told by a relative not long before he died. We never had spoken much about it when I was a kid, but he told me because by that point it no longer mattered. What's done is done.

The view from our bed. The doors to the room are glass but then there is a second lockable set with louvers. It's a great way to manage the Sicilian sun and heat. 

This is part of my American story and I'm proud of it. My Sicilian family thought differently and I'm happy they landed in Portland.

It's also been said they came here for the soil. They wanted nothing more than to be able to grow vegetables in peace and to prosper beyond poverty. Unlike many other Italian emigrants, they saw success early on and their sacrifice paid off.

Last photo before leaving. 

Driving through Palermo in the dark on our way to the airport I recalled having seen the bleak monument near the waterfront only days earlier dedicated to AI CADUTI NELLA LOTTA CONTRO LA MAFIA (those who'd fallen in the fight against the mafia). I thought of the judges who'd been blown up along that same road. I thought too of the brave Sicilians participating in addiopizzo. Many of them are of my generation and I know that if I lived there I too would be in their ranks.

I abhor the glorification of organized crime in any way, shape, or form. The commodification of this way of life feeds on the glorification of interpersonal violence and it's not what Sicilian culture is about and I'm ashamed of the ignorance of those who play into these stereotypes.

Leaving Sicily that Friday morning was very difficult for me. I'd only just started watching as something inside of me had germinated and began to grow. At least whatever it was was going with me.

When the wheels of the plane lifted off, I felt an emotional tug in my gut. I did not want to leave but I left with my eyes wide open for what felt like the first time in my life.

The Quince, Sea Beans, and a Black Oregon Truffle

Since it's almost Christmas, it's time for me to post what's been waiting in my hopper. (These past few weeks have been a blur.) 

Between cooking for folks here at home, ghostblogging about food for someone else, and cooking food for clients I've been working for as a caregiver, I'm feeling fairly proficient in the kitchen nowadays.

Our Thanksgiving Quinces as Still-life. 

Last month we purchased some quince from a local co-op. We'd gone there to look for raw goat milk for making cheese and whey. When we got home, John set about making quince paste. It was a fun process and quite different than I'd imagined. Both culinary projects went well and they tasted so good. The quince paste was served with some wild boar charcuterie at Thanksgiving alongside some Spanish cheeses.

Oh! That seems like ages ago to me right now.

There are so many vegetables to give thanks for this time of year.

Sausage, Potato and Savoy Cabbage Soup is a comfort food of mine.

We've pickled a few beets during the last few weeks and just last week I prepared my favorite cabbage soup when we had a large family of friends over for dinner. My best friend from college and his wife have adopted a baby and I get to be an auntie again. With his whole family in town, of course I had to invite them all over for dinner too.

Know your Italian chicories: Radicchio and Treviso. 

Last month there was a tasty salad I made with some radicchio too. It was raw radicchio—not grilled—so I was weary at first. Somehow serving it with crispy red onions and a citrus vinaigrette did something magical to its bitterness. It was another great success I hope to serve again soon.

Wild foraged Sea Beans. 

I'd always wanted to try these so last month I purchased some samphire at the Portland Farmers Market. I was pleasantly surprised by how salty they were when I popped one into my mouth.

Sea Beans with Rice Vinegar and Furikake. 

Days later I put this little salad together at home. I recommend sea beans highly if you're into salt. They are very crunchy too. Somewhere in my office I have seeds for them. I am really curious now to see how they'll taste when grown in my home garden.

Copper Beech in front of the Millar Library at PSU. 

While at PSU attending the Portland Farmer's Market, I enjoyed looking around. The market takes place in the park blocks and there are so many beautiful trees to look at while people watching and shopping. 

For many years it was a painful place for me to visit because my health had been very poor while I was a student there. Now that I'm much better, I can reflect on those years. We all need to process our past and move forward stronger and more aware. Being surrounded by the market makes that process kind of fun for me now. My love of food and my knowledge of plants has given me some much needed strength over the past few years.

After one of the trips to the market I went thrift store shopping. I was looking for a new ikebana vase when I found this old 1980s mauve piece. When I saw the sticker it made me smile. This shop is no longer in business and had belonged to my niece's grandmother on her mother's side of the family. While driving home, the poor thing broke, but my niece was happy I'd at least thought to pick it up for her. 

Wild Foraged Chanterelles.

I made these into an omelette. What do you like to make with yours? Just curious.

Oregon Black Truffle. 

We bought truffles too and John made a delicious risotto for us. (Risotto is common in the region of Italy he hails from and he was raised eating it.) The Oregon truffle was a fun twist on our usual recipe for both of us. Yes, the domestic truffle is not as tasty as European truffles, but they are more affordable. I'll take that tradeoff. Truffles just make me happy too. I smell them and they make me smile. When they are near me, I am content. 

Seriously. I love truffles.

Lastly, for Thanksgiving we also had some flowers. It began with this simple arrangement but then I expanded from there. This year I also made sure to buy American-grown flowers. I'm dedicated to buying them more often now and I can assure you that you'll be hearing more and more about this topic during the coming months.

Goodbye for now.
PS: Hope your holidays are going well!

Fête de la Saint-Fiacre—and a prayer too

This past weekend our gardening friends and counterparts in Ireland and France celebrated the Feast Day of St. Fiacre—the Patron Saint of gardening. Although celebrated by other Catholics in other countries, St. Fiacre was born in Ireland and lived his life in France so these two countries venerate him more than others. 

I was quite tickled (to be completely honest) when a long drawn out conversation about the Saint appeared in my Facebook feed early on August 31st. Started by a French plant breeder, talk almost immediately centered on how everyone celebrated the feast (with food of course), and why the date of this feast has been shifting. Although the official day is now set on August 11th, those in Ireland and France still apparently celebrate it either on August 30 (France) or September 1 (Ireland). 

St Fiacre with his shovel.

Yes, I have a statue of the Saint in my garden. I am rather fond of this guy. 

I think he's appeared here on the blog before, but I thought I'd write a little ode to him again now that it looks like I'll be staying here for several more years. I didn't pray to him to help me, but I guess I can quietly thank him. Time in the garden can be so lonely. It's good to have friends.

No, I am not an active Catholic, but I am very much Catholic by culture. I enjoy having a few statues of Saints around me when I'm in the garden. When they are not there, it honestly doesn't feel quite right to me.

St. Fiacre was a healer and worked with herbs. As I'm considering building my first herb garden, he's a good friend to meditate upon. I also like to believe that he was a good and gentle soul determined to help others. We need people like that in our lives. I am all for healing and think about it often.

In his right hand he holds a rose.

 In his left hand, he holds a shovel.

Heirloom Costoluto Genovese tomatoes from my future mother-in-law's garden. 

St. Fiacre is also the Patron Saint of Vegetable Gardeners, but that's of course not what this prayer is about:

Prayer to St. Fiacre

O good St. Fiacre to whom God has given the power to heal

the bodies of men affected by ugly evils of all kinds,

deign to intercede for us with the Almighty Creator,

so that our body restored to health,

can attain eternal glory.

Amen.

As a good Catholic-educated woman I think that 12 years in their educational network allows me to finally write a prayer of my own. Let's leave it as ann-onymous though since we all know that woman were not yet created as equals according to "the Church". 

Prayer to St Fiacre 

By Ann-onymous aka Amateur Bot-ann-ist

St Fiacre, I know you were good, 

and you gardened, and grew herbs. 

Today we celebrate you and your abilities to heal, 

but I celebrate your blessings and I pray for my organic solutions.

I pray to an end to man messing with my foods.

I pray for the bees and the birds 

—and that's not just because I'm a naughty Catholic school girl and it is fun to write that now. 

I pray that we can live in a world where the female is as respected as the male—because infertility can come from either side, and you're the Patron Saint of that too. 

Next year please bless our tomatoes, keep powdery mildew at bay, and try to protect our gardens from deep freezes and a Snowpocalypse. 

Lastly, God bless the florists too and thank you for protecting them. 

Stay fabulous St. Fiacre—eternally. 

Thank you and God bless. 

The Fruits of my Garden: Figs, Apples, Pomegranates, Asparagus and Berries

The second fig crop is still ripening on my Ficus  'Petite Negra'.

Days are shortening and nighttime temperatures are cooling down. Yesterday was our first dreary and wet reminder that our days are numbered. It misted and rained. Clouds hung in the air all day—as did the smell of PNW dampness. The city of Portland felt autumn as the season sauntered just a little bit nearer. 

Columnar Northpole apple (Malus) produced more fruit than ever! It tasted sweet, tart and crisp. 

This was not much of a harvest year for me in terms of edible crops. I like to grow ornamental plants for their seeds so that I can harvest them for my online garden shop. I do harvest something, but it's not what most people think of when they think of harvests. I'm a seed farmer, but I grow a few things to eat too.

Dwarf pomegranate, Punica granatum 'Nana'.

My dwarf pomegranate was grown from seed and I collect seeds from it each year. Since the shrubs are young, each year they produce more and more fruit. This year is by far their best so far and I expect to have more ripe fruit than ever.

Flower on the dwarf pomegranate, Punica granatum 'Nana'.

Ripening fruit on the dwarf pomegranate, Punica granatum 'Nana'.

There has also been a growing herb collection around the house. I've been cooking more recently and it's something John and I very much enjoy doing together. This winter I intend to plan the garden better for these activities since we find ourselves buying so many herbs all of the time. Limiting salt in my diet due to my swelling disease has really made me appreciate the taste of herbs so much more. We barely use any salt now. If you cook your food right, paying close attention to flavors, it's amazing how far herbs can go to replace sodium.

The overgrown asparagus bed. These were grown from seed.

When I originally planted edibles in the garden I wanted to plant things that were either difficult to find or else ornamental and unusual. The asparagus was neither. It reminded me of the fresh asparagus grown by Italian-American farmers in the PNW. Even though I can still buy it at the store, I really enjoy my own plants more. What's nice is that even though they've been neglected, they're still very productive.

Evergreen huckleberry, Vaccinium ovatum.

My native evergreen huckleberries are also wonders to behold this time of year. Usually they are packed full of fruit but I guess mine aren't going to be this time around. Since last year I had an amazing crop I don't mind at all. These are amazing ornamentals for shady corners so it's simply a bonus if they produce for me too.

The image of edible gardening shame—an unused and overgrown raised bed. 

This year I was hoping to use the raised bed for a large basil planting. I never quite made it but next year I'll make it happen. Now that there's a pesto- and polenta-loving Northern Italian in the family I can get past my Southern Italian culinary preferences. I always loved basil (and polenta) too. Next year will be the summer of basilico around here. (I can already smell it on the horizon.)

The first 2013 crop of figs. 

I recently took an online poll of my fig-loving friends for recipe ideas. Since I was raised to just eat them fresh I thought it was time to do something different. (Besides, I can only eat so many with goat cheese and pistachios before I begin feeling a bit piglet-ish so I wanted to find something healthier.) A Parisian friend recommended Honey Roasted Figs and Rosemary (Figues rôties au miel au romarin) and I am so glad that he did. The figs tasted fantastic!

Honey Roasted Figs with Rosemary

• about 1 dozen fresh figs

• 1/3 cup honey (fresh and local if possible)

• 1 large sprig of rosemary broken into 4 pieces

• freshly cracked pepper

Heat oven to 375F. Wash and dry figs. Cut in half. Arrange open side up in a baking dish. Drizzle figs with honey. Arrange the pieces of rosemary between the figs. (If you want the rosemary taste to be stronger, I suggest adding more.) Crack pepper over the figs. Place in oven and bake for about 15 minutes or until the honey begins to caramelize. Let cool. Can be served with a nice mild—yet tangy—goat cheese. 

C'est magnifigue!

(The Grow Write Guild is a creative writing club for people who garden. It's a series of bi-weekly writing prompts created by garden author and blogger Gayla Trail. I'm starting out late with the series but hope to catch up soon. It's just what this blogger needed for some summer fun.)