Oh my goodness! Somehow the fall and winter have gone by, and I didn’t write about any of it. I didn’t write about
I Morti, the festival of the dead. I didn’t write about any of the sweets that the defunct leave for the good little boys and girls who go the cemetery on Nov. 1st to visit their graves; not a word about the
frutti di martorana - mandarins partially unpeeled to reveal their succulent segments, peaches with soft felted skin, mushrooms with cacao soil clinging to their base, all crafted out of almond paste with such artistry as to seem real, or about the
taralucci - baked lemon crullers with subtle hints of anise and lemon and a crunchy sugar glaze, or about the
tetù cookies - walnut sized cookies with cloves and chocolate and of course the
ossa di morto - and nothing about the macabre little wafers with a white circle of meringue so named because they are made to resemble bits of bone with some flesh still attached.
I didn’t write about he last summery days of
l’estate di San Martino, or even jot down recipe for the rock hard anise scented cookies that are dipped in Marsala on November 11th to say goodbye to the summer heat and to welcome the oncoming winter.
I neglected to write about my first “real” Thanksgiving I held here in Palermo, with 15 people (including Flora) crowded around a precarious table extended with slabs of masonite propped
up on saw-horses. The chairs were pushed up against the furniture leaving no room to stand up, and slices of
rotolo di tacchino and daubs of dried fruit chutney had to be slung from one end of the table to the other. I didn’t write about how we all sat languidly on the floor of the living room dipping
bucellati - golden semolina pastries bursting open with a fragrant paste of figs, orange peel, chocolate and spices - in home made
allorino.
On December 13th, the
festa di Santa Lucia, a friend brought over some
arancini (fried balls of rice made to resemble oranges, or the saints eyes that were burnt out, depending on how morbid an interpretation you prefer) and I even tried my hand at making
cuccia (a pudding of whole wheat kernes, ricotta and chocolate) but I didn’t write about any of it.
I didn’t write about the
sfinci Carmella, my cleaning woman taught me to make for Manlio’s birthday. As he gets closer and closer to 50 he gets more dour every year. But when I called him in to the kitchen presenting him with one of the potato fritters hot out of the oil and dusted with cinnamon sugar he was delighted. He said they were just like his childhood babysitter Rosalia used to make, and went into a rapture of nostalgia describing her long silver braids, and her white socks pulled up to just under her knee leaving a piece of sausage leg peaking out under the hem of her black skirt.
I didn’t write about my sister-in-law’s Christmas eve dinner, about the tray of succulent roasted goat she made that I complemented her on by saying it was the “goatiest goat I had ever eaten” (and therefore the best). I’m sure that the art of goat roasting is either genetic or my husband learned from his sister. I didn’t even write about her artful recombination of the leftovers into a plate of
papardelle with goat
aglassato.
I didn’t write about New years, though I must confess that in this case there was nothing to write about. We all had the flu, and watched old VHS tapes until midnight when we opened a dusty bottle of cheap champagne someone had given us years ago to toast 2011, then went back to bed.
I didn’t write about Flora’s first birthday on January 13th or the battling cakes her godmother and I made for her. Ironically enough, Gabriella made a plumcake - an Italian version of an English breakfast cake, and I made a cheesecake - the American interpretation of an Italian crostata di ricotta.
So many recipes unwritten, so many traditions left unexplained! Well thankfully, the winter calorie-fest isn’t over yet...There’s
carnevale with fried
chiacchere and
zeppole, the festa di San Giuseppe (Father's day here) with ricotta stuffed
sfinci, a soup made up of all of the larders left-overs, and intricate sculptures of bread. Then finally, we will close the circle with almond paste again - this time in the form of Easter lambs.
Here is Carmella’s recipe for
chiaccere, crispy strips of fried dough dusted with powdered sugar. I suggest making them when you have a crowd. With the an appeal similar to that of potato chips (but worse because they are sweet), they are the kind of thing that you eat until they are gone.
Ingredients:
500g all purpose flour
4 eggs
50 g of melted butter
100 g sugar
1 “finger” of grappa
Mound the flour mixed with the sugar on your working surface, make a well in the center and add the eggs, butter and grappa. knead the dough together as if you were making pasta, adding a bit of water if the dough is too stiff. Let it rest for at least 20 minutes. Then roll the dough out as thin as you can, and cut it into strips with a pizza roller or fluted pasta cutter. Fry the strips in abundant hot oil, draining them on paper towels. Dust them with powdered sugar and serve.
