To continue Monday's imaginary jaunt to southern Italy (and in complete defiance of the snow outside my window), I'm deciding to move on to the isle of Sicily. The name usually conjures up images of mafiosi, and while their prevalence and history is definitely one facet of the fascinating region, it certainly isn't the only one.
Marlena de Blasi is the author of A Thousand Days in Venice and A Thousand Days in Tuscany, neither of which I've read. They are now on my list, however, after enjoying That Summer in Sicily, a beautiful account of how the author and her husband stumble upon a mysterious villa, and learn of the love story of its patroness.
De Blasi's writing is sensual and earthy, and she describes things in intricate detail. For instance, read how she illustrates her hostess as she prepares a drink.
From her high-backed white iron chair with the red velvet cushion, she tugs at the less regal one next to her and beckons me to sit. I do. An assent. Into a thin, tall glass she pours out a cloudy stream of almond milk from a small pitcher, adds water from another pitcher, unscrews what looks like a medicine bottle, and with a dropper, doses the whitish mixture with a few drops of neroli. Essance of orange blossoms. She stirs the drink with a long spoon, stirs it ferociously, removes the spoon, and lays it, bowl down, upon the table. A high priestess in full ceremony, her movements seem liturgical.
A recipe I may have to try myself . . .
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