Pistacchio and Pasta: the Making of a Favorite

When I visited Sicily three years ago, my family was in the process of building Nelson Agriturismo. The agritourism sits on a large piece of land with a cluster of olive trees, a little zoo and a river running through it. There is an elegant and spacious dinning room, bungalows for overnight stays and a separate kiosk that is stocked with beer and liquor. In this small farm town, it is one of the few places for entertainment. They tell me that the business was the idea of my deceased uncle.

One evening when he was alone in the boschetto, the groves, working the land someone shot him in the back. No one saw anything, no heard anything, and today no one speaks of the incident.

The Boschetto is the heart of Maniace’s pear and peach farmland. My grandparents and my aunt have a home in this area. My aunt’s farmland is a ways down the strict street that barely fits two cars in passing.

My deceased Uncle owned a warehouse that once belonged to the English Duke. The warehouse is over a hundred years old, and is used by my family to store and package peaches, pears and beans that they ship throughout Italy.

I am told that the encompassing terrain of Maniace was once the Duke’s property and that everyone here one time or another worked for him. The contadini (farmers) labored under a feudal system that only began to change after World War II.

Named after Duke Nelson and situated right across from his former estate, Il Castello Nelson (Neslon’s Castle), Nelson Agriturismo is in a prime location. There have been some inner-family disputes over the agriturismo: “So and So” no longer salutes “So and So,” and “So and So” heard that “So and So” was saying bad things about “So and So”— and on and on the drama grows.

I cannot grasp the exact reason, depth and start of the argument — even in a month visit. Sicily is a complex island. The people’s rules of reasoning, ignitions of jealousy and often foolish pride, of which I assume, thrives from centuries of hardships and foreign invasions, are seemingly intrinsic to the culture. Despite the feud over the restaurant, I still visit it. What people do here in order to survive are not for an outsider to judge.

Today I had a special date with the chef of Nelson Agriturismo, Angelo Pappalardo. He prepared for me one of my favorite dishes that he said originated in Bronte, Penne a Pistacchio. The town of Bronte is one of the few places in the world that can grow the delicate nut. The pistacchio trees take root in the lava rock that lay in the perimeters of the town. Every two years the tree is harvested.

Its slender shell, dark violet skin and emerald green nut is preferred over the Californian and Iranian species which are rounder but less meaty. It is precious. And for those reasons, I am told, not every pistacchio that carries the mark of Bronte actually comes from the town.

It is physically impossible. “You see the trees. There is no way that Bronte can produce that many pistacchio’s to satisfy the North, the South,” my aunt and cousin Francesca said.

They recounted several incidents where proprietors mixed the nuts with those from the Middle East.

Being that Bronte is right next door to Maniace, I have passed the pistacchio farms at least 100 times and have often wondered myself how the rare terrain can produce all the pistacchio products that are sold throughout Italy and the world.

We did agree that the dish Pappalardo prepared was made with 100 percent “pistacchio di Bronte.” He used fresh pistacchi and when the nut is whole, the eye can distinguish the difference.

Pistacchio di Bronte.

Prepared before hand, fried onions and prosciutto cotto blended in a food processor were placed in an olive oil coated pot. He stirred that for a bit and then ladled in vegetable stock. A generous amount of finely chopped pistacchio nuts were stirred in while he continuously added the stock until it turned into a creamy paste.

The onion and prosciutto mixture cooking.

Finely chopped pistacchi.

While that cooled in a separate container, he boiled the penne pasta and explained the history of the dish. Lo Chef, as he is called by the other workers, has worked in Sardegna and Switzerland where he learned how to cook. He explained that the recipe is versatile and could even be made with rice; instead all the ingredients would cook together.

After 15 minutes passed, he scooped the sauce into pans sitting over a high flame. He stressed that no olive oil is used in the next preparations.

The panna and vegetable stock.

Panna (cooking cream) and vegetable stock were added and heated to form a creamy pesto. Then the cooked pasta was tossed in the pan, finely coating each penne.

My favorite dish, made especially for me.

I asked for cheese. “No cheese,” he reprimanded me.

Italians have stringent codes about which ingredients and foods can or cannot mix together. Guidelines and prohibitions are almost non-existent in the States. Food can intermingle freely, however the dinner chooses, and optimum taste and common food sense may sometimes be ignored.

For example, I cannot stand to see people put cheese on fish. Why even eat the fish, when all you taste is cheese? It smothers the natural flavor. Plus it just does not go. Think about it. It just does not go. Milk on fish. No. “Absolutely no cheese on fish either. Absolutely not,” Lo Chef reaffirmed the culinary rule.

The Proposition

When two people make a decision to start something with conditions, how long do the conditions last? I have been in Sicily for exactly one week and have started seeing someone, x. I met him last December.

Our second night out, he set it all out straight for me — nothing serious. He is six years my junior, living in a small farm town with no intentions to move, and I live in Florence and will only be visiting for a month. That considered I gladly accepted his terms after setting down some of my own rules: He cannot see someone else and when we are together, in love or not, I need a lot of attention. Agreed.

Last night he asked me to go out. When I answered the phone, I did not hear a “Ciao.” No. I was greeted with an abrupt, shout of “Oh.” A lot of people in Sicily use this word or expression, I do not even know how to categorize it, to get attention, express dislike for something, and as I learned today to say “hello.”

I accepted his invite. “Yes, but I have to eat dinner first,” I said.

Of course he had to eat with his family also. Dinner is a big deal in Italy, but I think especially in Sicily. At the time he called, Nonna was preparing mine. I was at one of a hundred cousins’ home and they insisted that I stay and eat with them. Nonna would kill me if I ate somewhere else.

Every day she asks me what I want to eat, and tries her best to fulfill my order. If I bail, I know she would be disappointed. So I declined but stayed a bit to chit chat.

When x. called me, I really could not have a full discussion with him. My cousins were around and believe me they listened to my conversation.

The other conditions of the relationship, is no outright public affection. People in the town of Maniace talk. Besides smoking, playing cards and farming, there is nothing else to do except gossip.

They are already talking.

“She was with x. last night,” said for no reason my cousin’s 16-year-old “newlywed” wife to her mother-in-law. I say “newlywed” because they are not legally married, instead they ran off together and now the whole town considers them man and wife.

“Who?”

“Her.”

“Her? She was with x.? Which x.? “

“Yes. Her. She and x. were at the festival together last night.”

“ Oh x.”

They were discussing me as if I was not there. Then it was silent and they were all just staring at me. Yes x. and I hung out at the La Sagra, the pear and peach festival; however we were with about 10 other people.

x. was right. They will think we are fidanzate, boyfriend and girlfriend, if they see us kissing or holding hands. I hate this. One of the reason I love Italy is because it is a place for lovers. A piazza would be bare if there were not at least two couples necking. In Florence, most of my dates with D. consisted of eating pizza on the crowded church steps in Piazza Santo Spirito, followed by passionate kissing.

But this town is about 1,000 years behind in mentality and technology. x. was also thinking of my reputation when he vetoed public affection. Reputation has worth in a town of about 4,000 inhabitants, where the lines between men and women are thickly drawn. If I am not careful I could be labeled as promiscuous – just for going out alone with a guy.

At 10:30 p.m. I had finished my meal and I called him to ask when we will go out. He said he was running late and in the middle of eating. Midnight is when he would finish. Fine.

I waited, waited and waited . . . and am still waiting. He never called back. Do I say something? Is last minute plan breaking outside of the conditions we set? I am debating. Maybe our agreement had already expired.

Shopping in Catania

Today I went shopping in Catania with my cousin Francesca and her sister-in-law. Normally I would be the one insisting that we go to Catania. My favorite labels Fornarina and Max&Co are hard to find in the States. Both have good size shops here; but being that I am working without pay and do not know how long it will take before I find a paying job, I had to restrain myself. Thankfully the stores we frequented were not my style and we focused on finding a dress for Francesca.

I did manage to take some pics while we eyed the windows of the shops on the main street, Via Etnea. Most of the popular shops are on this street.

In front of the gates of Chiesa di San Biago S. Agata alla fornace

Being that it was the end of Summer, now was a good time to shop in Italy because the stores begin to discount the leftovers in preparation for Fall. Going against the practical side of my brain, I gave into temptation. It was instant attraction. As soon as I walked into the Fornarina store a sparkling pair of silver patent leather flats caught my eye. They winked. I winked back. Picked them up. Checked the price. Only €45. Heelllooo Looveerrrr . . . .

The foyer of Piazza Stesicoro #8

Second Night in Sicily

The stars shine bright in Sicily.

Night Train to Sicily

After I returned from my beach trip, I had to quickly organize my things in order to catch the 9 p.m. night train for Sicily at Campo di Marte, the smaller train station in Florence. It would take precisely 12 hours to reach Catania Centrale.

As soon as I got on the train, I could feel the difference. The people were not stuffy, confined or presumptuous. I loved it. Southerners are raw. Plus they have particular sense of humor that is light with a touch of sarcasm.

The men are men; easy going, but rough at the same time. And they do not apologize for using their animal instinct. It is attractive.

Everyone on the train was smoking out of the window. My favorite is watching a Southern man, preferably Sicilian, smoke a cigarette. Just at the point when the smoke drifts up to his eyes, stinging them, he squints, takes a drag, exhales and slouches back; holding the cigarette with force yet a stroke of gentleness — the way a woman should be held.

Northerners would not dare try to smoke on the train; but this train was headed South where there are no rules.

My compartment had six bed bunks or cuccette. When I entered, all I saw were seats, no beds. It worried me a bit. My roommates, two couples and one guy traveling with his black cat, caught onto to my distress and assured me that the seats would be converted into beds.

Everyone was curious about me. They helped me load my heavy suitcase to the top level of the compartment. When I was not looking, they checked my tags to see where I was from. I know this now, because in a later conversation, they told me I was from Cleveland.

Once I was situated, some trouble began. Two train attendants came about, and asked me if I was traveling alone. “Yes,” I said.

It was past 9 p.m. and the train had not left the station.

“Can you help us? There is a room with five women and we made a mistake and gave the sixth ticket to a man. Would you switch with him,” they asked me. “But you are not obligated, you are not obligated.”

“Uhh, I don’t know,” I said. “I hate to stay with five other women. I don’t know.”

“You’re not obligated.”

“Well where would I sleep, I don’t want to sleep on the bottom. I don’t know. Who are these women?”

I did not give a direct answer because I felt pressure, but I really did not want to move.

The two men left to check about where I would lay my head. Meanwhile all of my roommates were telling me “no stay here, tranquilla (I do not know the exact translation for this in English, but it is a term that signifies calmness/no worries). It’s their fault, not yours. You’re already situated.”

The two men came back.

“They said you can have the top bunk. Will you switch? Remember you are not obligated.”

The train still had not left the station. Was I holding it up? “What if I said no? Does that mean we wait until the man finds a spot,” I asked.

No answer. The two men looked worrisome and one walked about from my compartment back to the other, preparing for the switch. The other continued to ask me to switch, always reminding me I was not obligated.

Then two carabiniere (police) came to the door. One had medium length dark brown, almost black hair and dark eyes — very attractive. He stared me down. Italian men, especially those south of Rome which is where most carabiniere arefrom, feel no shame about openly scanning a woman. It is always the same move. The mouth stays shut and the eyes speak for him, fixating on her until she returns the stare, just as this policeman was doing to me now. I was too busy trying to pacify the train attendants, who were in a compromising situation, to return the gesture. They were also watching me waiting for an answer. “Remember you’re not obligated,” they repeated.

“You say I’m not obligated, but you are all making me feel obligated.” That is when I finally said no.

They left. I guess they were kicking him off the train. My roommates were still telling me to stick by my decision. “Don’t move. We all get along and we’ll keep each other company.”

The train attendants and policemen passed in front of my door, with large knapsack bags in hand. Obviously the bags belonged to the man with the wrong ticket. Close behind them was a tall, lanky African man who looked like he spent weeks trekking across the Sahara.

He stopped at my door. He begged me in broken Italian to switch places. My roommates took one look at him and held their breath. Silence fell over the compartment. No one said a word, but their eyes —widened — flashed back at me panic. “NO!!!! Don’t leave us with him,” their eyes silently screamed.

I felt bad for this man, but I had already said no. Plus, these people would kill me for leaving them with an African. In the end, I reaffirmed the “no.” And everyone in the compartment exhaled.

Unfortunately, the African was kicked off the train. I find it hard to believe that I was the only woman traveling alone. I think that maybe they really did not try that hard to find him a seat. The train company made a mistake in giving him a spot in a room designated for women only. He should have been placed in another compartment. On the other hand, he did just buy his ticket. The others on the train, such as me, had reserved our seats weeks in advance.

Daniela and Giuseppe, the younger of the two couples, fixed all the beds. The room was compact, with just enough space for everyone and everything. She had to straddle the lower bunks below in order to reach top bunks.

Daniela and Giuseppe fixing the bunks.

Looking down from the top.

I liked my group. When I first got on the train, I was still feeling a bit low from the trip to Bibbona, but being with Sicilians and Calabrese, rejuvenated me. Hearing Sicilian dialect was like coming home.

In the morning, the train stopped in Calabria. The train cars rolled onto the traghetto, the ferry that crosses the Strait of Messina. Once the cars were curled inside the ship, we were allowed to go on deck.

“Qual ѐ la Sicilia,” I a little boy curiously asked his father. Straight ahead was the Pearl of the Mediterranean. There is Sicily.

Sicilia!!!!! Che Bella!

From the traghetto - the ferry makes its way to the city of Messina.

*Leading photo: the train curled inside the traghetto.*