Sicilian Diary

Our Gnocchi dish has been a big seller since we opened. Sometimes entire tables will go for it, once the first person chooses it. It seems that Sicilians don't tend to have gnocchi at home and so enjoy the potato dumplings on an evening out. They are actually easy to make : This recipe makes 7 portions of 200g. * 1 kg potatoes with the skin on *350g white flour * 2 egg yolks 1. Boil the potatoes with the skin on and no salt. (this can be done the day before) 2. Mash the potatoes in a bowl, then mix together (using your hands) with the flour and egg yolks. 3. When you have a kind of solid ball, knead it well on your worktop. 4. Then roll it out flat and cut into long thinnish sausages. Sprinkle a bit of flour on to prevent sticking, and then cut the sausages up into little gnocchi size portions. 5. Cook for 3 minutes, or until they rise to the surface. (Extra portions will keep in a tupperware for a few days in the fridge, or you can freeze them and eat them at a later date). Gnocch...

This morning a man in his 30s followed me slowly up the hill on his motorbike and gazed back as he passed me, almost causing an accident with oncoming traffic. He then waited for me at a carpark halfway up the hill and watched my backside as I went up the steps to the borgo, a big sleazy grin plastered on his face. Welcome to Sicily, home of repressed maniacs. I was recruited on Saturday night to a most interesting cause – a Women’s Group for Milazzo. I had just been talking earlier in the day with some English teachers here that it was odd that there were some many clubs for men here – ranging from various sporting activities to card playing etc, but nothing for women. A Spanish girl married to a local man, and a girl of Greek origins were the headhunters. I couldn’t refuse. We had the meeting at the Greek girl’s house, about ten of us in total. They said they wanted to set up a women’s group because women are not represented in Milazzo, no women’s support centre, no rape crisis centr...

This morning on my way out of the library I was waylaid by the nosey woman at reception. I knew that sooner or later one of them would have to interrogate me – it would be too much for their inquisitive minds to let me pass by several days a week without even knowing where I come from and who my husband is. They have absolutely nothing to do in this beautiful old palazzo comunale where the library is; I often wonder if their work is voluntary, as they could not afford to pay ten people to do nothing. At least I hope that is not what our endless taxes go on. That said, there were 4 traffic wardens (called, importantly in Italian, Polizia Municipale) dealing with deviated traffic at the crossroads at Piazza Roma today – where in most countries you would see one person. But that’s Italy. Two were in conversation, one was smoking a cigarette, and the other was actually directing the traffic. Anyway, the nosey lady gets straight to the point. What are you doing here? – It’s pretty obvious, ...

Our philosophical regular, Giorgio, tells me he’s not going to bother voting in the upcoming elections for mayor. ‘What’s the point?’ he asks, ‘Do you think anything is ever going to change here?’ He laughs derisively. ‘What I hate most about this time of year, is that you see the same old faces you haven’t seen for three years or so; now it’s election time, they are out scouting for support, smiling at you like you’re their best friend. What a load of rubbish!’ The thing that annoys me most, I say, is the lack of rubbish collection, and the fact that there is no recycling. Uncivilised, developing country issues. Any chance this will change with a new administration? Giorgio laughs again: ‘Sure that’s all a ‘giro di interesse’’, he says, looking at me carefully to see if I know what he means. ‘Vested interests’ is another way of saying, that’s mafia territory , without having to mention the M-word. I know, I say, but I can’t believe no one does anything about it: You all complain to e...

It’s 18 February and about 26 degrees in the sun here in Sicily. It is so warm that by the time I got to Vacarella at 10.30ish, my hair was burning. Since the weather has been so stormy the last few days, forcing the locals to stay at home and play cards or watch San Remo, the Italian version of the Eurovision Song contest, the beautiful weather today has brought them all out on the street to buy fish, or watch others buy fish. Crowds are gathering round the latest catch, which the fisherman is still hauling off his boat. Eels spiral in a bucket, bright eyed red mullet are already lying on the metal tray, and he now pours on small silvery ‘mope’, some still alive and wiggling. A quiet row has formed, waiting for the moment when the fisherman will be ready to sell. Two old men wheel their bikes through the crowd, waiting with patience and resignation for people to move to let them past, instead of saying, ‘excuse me’. The fishermen start gutting fish or wrapping them up for customers wh...

At the bar down by the fishermen’s port, two Saturdays in a row we run into the local Tom Jones. Sitting with his wife and her friend, he stares at us through the haze of his cigarette, without removing his shades. He wants to know where we are from. He is delighted to know we are Irish and not English, whom he dismisses with a flick of his cigarette as boring and unfriendly. Do we like it here? he wants to know, and beams at our positive reply. We know better than to mention the negative sides of living here; the pollution from the refinery, the filth around the smouldering rubbish heaps every 100metres, the lechy old men. Ahem … what are relationships like in Ireland, he demands to know, abandoning the small talk to cut to the quick. I mean, who wears the trousers? He leans forward in his chair, keen to see our reaction. We both proclaim the equality prevalent in male-female relationships in Ireland, unlike what we see here. Aha! He gets excited, and what is it like here? We both kno...