Italian Hours

As a kid, traveling meant using every single mode of transportation and exploring both the new and familiar. We were just as likely to visit the other side of the city where we were living as we were to be in San Francisco, Venezuela, Boston, or Montreal. Who didn’t want to follow the drama of the highly competitive but amiable koi competition in your hometown? We spent much of our time trying to figure out why one fish was deserving of the blue ribbon over all of the seemingly similar fish. If someone came to visit, there was no shortage of sights, sounds, and tastes to share because we were forever tourists and residents simultaneously.

Before I lived in Italy, I visited. Eager to test out my fluency, I longed to experience first-hand what I had learned about its art, food, literature, architecture, history, music, and more. And yes, I was amongst the throngs of people in Venice, Florence, Siena, and magical places featured in plays, paintings, and operas.

Before there were digital cameras and smartphones, I had one of the best trips of my life to the island of Sicily. I went with visions of The Leopard, Ancient Greek cities, and, of course, the Godfather. I had gone with the promise of lemons and bright citrus, marzipan, fresh seafood, chocolate bars punctuated with interesting ingredients, and brioche with ice cream for breakfast!

What I hadn’t imagined, but in hindsight is quite obvious, was the North African influences on the island. There was that familiar seafood I had expected but it was mixed in and topped tomato-sauced couscous, making something delicious and akin to paella. Otherwise, the fish was grilled or sautéed and kissed by wild fennel, briny capers, and sour citrus.