Kitchen Help

Sicilia is not full of shady mafiosi. It is not derelict and populated by shifty, mistrustful locals. Folks here do, however, talk in a funny nasal way, and most lapse into Sicilian (a dialect of Italian that I cannot for the life of me understand) regularly, especially when they want to talk about you right in front of you.

That's what I spent the last week at my final farm dealing with. Oh, to be sure, it was not meant in spite. The fat, sarcastic ladies in the kitchen at the agritourismo just couldn't figure me out. They were rather standoffish when I first arrived; after all, I was on their turf. They had a kitchen to run, guests to serve homemade food to, and I was relegated the most mundane tasks least likely to screw things up.

Wait a minute. I have a wattle?

Now, my working in a kitchen may not sound very much like farming. Indeed, my friends, it wasn't. I in fact only visited the actual fields and greenhouses for a few hours. Not once did I dig my hands into fresh soil, or spritz water over rows of zucchini. I potted not, I neither plucked nor picked. I fear the one stereotype of the south of Italy being rather traditional is true, as I, being a smallish young woman, was judged by Giorgio, master of the premisis, to be incapable of the fieldwork. I insisted that I was strong. He just smiled and handed me an apron of blue checked gingham with stitching on the pocket of two little chickens dancing underneath what looked like marijuana plants. It had ruffles on the sleeves. I was mortified.

But Jenny, didn't you revel in learning authentic Sicilian cuisine in the kitchen? Truth be told, I did not. Banish from your thoughts idyllic images of motherly matrons patting dough and smiling as they stirred and sipped their simmering sauces. These ladies meant business. They had a gigantic mixer almost as tall as me in the corner, which churned out wads and wads of dough. They baked their own bread, ruthlessly kneading and feeding it through a commercial flattening device. They pounded the pasta and squirted ricotta with mechanic precision, ground bread crumbs in record time, and plated grilled meats swiftly. I saw some of this, rapid as it occurred, but mostly I was washing dishes.

Ugh. Flashback to My First Job, as dishwasher at Randall's Grocery Store deli in Winona. Scalding hot water in the industrial dishwashing machine, hot utensils, food gobbed on plates, slippery chicken grease underfoot. I hated it, and I still do. Yet I worked with my usual perfectionist inclinations and, within a couple of days, I was grilling mushrooms, much like another job I hated: pan-fry chef at the Hot Fish Shop, also in Winona. Both establishments, mind you, are no longer. Coincidence? Hmm.

Also within a couple of days: The ladies had warmed up to me. Franca, a dour-looking matron, suddenly reached towards me when I came in one morning and twaddled my wattle.

Wait a minute. I have a wattle? Well, with the amount of skin she stretched and jiggled under my neck, I do now. Look for it next time I'm in town.

The banter in the kitchen, though I couldn't understand most of it, was pleasant. I thank the deities that I was in the kitchen and not out on the serving floor being a waitress, especially the first night, when 70 members of the manure consortium descended on the joint. They ate everything, and smelled faintly of fecundity. Yes, I just said fecundity. Look it up.

Though I missed much of the actual process of cooking, my back being bent over piles and piles of dishes that had to be pre-washed by hand, I did get a few ideas on typical foods. The ladies, by the end, were calling me "Jennina" and feeding me cannoli every time I turned around. Not bad.

Still, I limited my time to a week. I came to farm, and, though I could have tried to scare up one last farm visit, I decided to head to Siracusa for the festa di Santa Lucia, where folks paraded through the streets, lit fireworks, venerated a large silver statue of the city's patron saint (which had a knife sticking straight out of her neck), and held little babies up, their arms akimbo, to kiss the podium on which she stood. The very religious walked barefoot and carried three-foot-long candles dripping wax all over the road. I followed, hardly devout, but happy with my decision to chill out in beautiful Siracusa for a few days before heading home.

Yes, home. But first, Milan.....