been dark

As it turns out, I’m not a reliable blogger. It’s been, what, more than a week, nearly two since I last posted. I haven’t been fasting all that time; there have been some delicious meals in Rome and a couple in Sicily. Have my expectations or senses shifted, or is restaurant food in the south less inspired than I remember? Maybe it’s another sad result of globalization, EU homogenization: less eccentricity in the cooking, all the deep roots of the authentic Sicilian kitchen yanked and peeled and boiled, purèed bland in color and taste; where’s the richness of culture and cuisine that used to arrive at the table? Now, just like Americans, the Italians use tomatoes out of season, hot house imposters, and boxed and packaged ingredients from who knows where. It’s ironic: the Sicilians resisted thousands of years of invasion — the Greeks, Moors, Normans. But in the face of a currency tsunami, rising up out of Clinton-era initiatives to blend industries and economies around the world for who’s benefit, and the co-opting strength of a unified Europe, they’ve handed over so much of their culture... including their cooking.

The best meals I’ve had in the last ten days were in private homes; my neighbors on Filicudi, Luigi right next door; and Guia, just down the hill.

I don’t know how long he really marinated that leg of lamb; probably a couple days. Olive oil, fresh rosemary, plenty of salt (don’t be afraid of salt), white pepper; that’s probably it, maybe a little white wine and/or fresh lemon juice, because you can lean over the terrace bench right now at Luigi’s and pick a lemon. He cooked it at a steady 200 degrees centigrade for about an hour and a half in the small domed wood-fired oven on the side terrace. We drank a white wine from Calabria — this is lunch — and chatted and admired the view of the Tyrrhenian from fifteen hundred feet up the steep old volcano, a brilliant spring day with sharp sunshine and a breeze that sharpened the air, too. A friendly group, mostly neighbors and the island’s doctor, guy’s idle most of the time he’s been there, 12 years. This leg of lamb, coming to the table on a big platter, is maybe 12 pounds of bone and moist meat, glistening from the forno’s deep heat, with an aroma as heady as an essential oil on the skin.

Two days later, lunch at Guia’s. Meat again, this time a veal roast, very simple, familiar, rich flavors of the clean meat and salt slow roasted together. The beautiful moment — and there are always beautiful moments with Guia — was the timbale. She called the sauce Sugo Mediterreano, something she just made up while she was cooking. But here’s the beautiful secret to Guia’s touch in the kitchen: she uses every supporting flavor of the Sicilian countryside, everything fresh: lemon, sage, rosemary, sea salt, parsley, oregano, sun-dried tomatoes from last summer refreshed in a cold water bath for ten minutes, patted dry and soaked in olive oil overnight.

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The blackout in the blog the last ten days has been because there’s no internet service on Filicudi. Now that I’m back in Rome, I hope to connect at Paolo’s, where I’ll be staying for the next few days while I meet with lawyers, somebody with a velvet hammer to hit Nuncio, hard, on his hands, make him let go of the keys to our house.

That report is coming. Plus, the best cannoli I ever tasted.