Sicilian Diary

Temperatures are rising, and with it, tempers in the kitchen. So much so that the first cook almost assaulted the second cook last week. Almost, because in the chef's attempt to hit or headlock him, the second cook slipped out of his grip. Witnesses say the first cook was provoked by the second cook's gibes. Mio marito, so sorry  to have to deal with such issues, did the necessary legal formalities. So now we have a situation where the Second is afraid to work with the First Cook. I can understand: First Cook is a big guy. But Second Cook has now closed himself in a little world of his own and won't speak to anyone. Which makes collaboration in the kitchen slightly tricky. Did I mention my husband's other job is with Oxfam Sicily? He's working on projects related to the hugely pressing issue of immigration into Sicily. From saving immigrants' lives to saving cooks in our kitchen. Imagine what keeps him up at night...

At the café. Sunday morning and I’m just about to pay for my cappuccino when the owner at the till looks over my shoulder, says, “Are you paying for a coffee, doctor?” And let his mate pay first. I smile graciously (much more effective than fuming) and then pay for the two cappuccini and cake we'd ordered for a birthday lunch. The owner realised his error and gave me 50cents off. Half the fun in cafés where there are traditional, uniformed barmen is listening to the lively greetings in the morning. Buongiorno avvocato; buona giornata, professoressa; caffè dottore? Good morning, Lawyer, have a good day, Teacher, would you like a coffee, Doctor? (NB any flimsy old degree entitles you to be called doctor in Italy). However. We still don’t like queue jumping. Another friend who runs an English School said she ordered two hot takeaway capuccini at her local café in a five minute coffee break. The barman made the coffees and then let them stand before adding the froth while h...

Last weekend we parted company with our barman, who has been with us since our rocky beginning six years ago. Through the winter he worked Fridays and Saturdays, but recently the bar had been quiet on Friday nights so mio marito had him come in on Saturdays only. He was a high maintenance kind of guy so last week he handed in his notice saying once a week was just not worth it. He had tears in his eyes, he said, which we couldn’t verify because this was a phonecall. He ended by saying he would call in during the week to return the restaurant keys. My husband turned to me and said: “Rubbish. He has a new job and I know exactly where.” Fact is, the barman duly brought the keys back – when no one else was there. We only spotted them after noticing his cocktail mixers were gone. Now, aside from the fact that from our point of view he took the hint, it’s a shame our erstwhile resident diva didn’t have the balls to bid farewell in person. Especially since his new employment ...

This sign - which I read as a woman blithely skipped the queue and took my 16.20 appointment, much to my dismay as I was on the alert for such common trickery - talks about some basic Waiting Room rules, such as keeping the communicating door closed for patients' privacy (queue-jumping is not mentioned). The NB at the bottom warns that "Those patients who double park their cars will not be given priority".

Via del Duomo Antico no more A trumpet tune brought me to my balcony this morning. This scene greeted me: a little gathering of Milazzo notables (male) including the mayor and his driver, a few lawyer types, and one distinguished-looking lady, most of them around the 60s mark. A priest, all dressed up in festive gowns officiated at the ceremony, reading from a book that definitely was not the Bible. I strained to hear what they were saying but cars hooting at the photographers capturing the scene (from the middle of a dangerous intersection) impaired my hearing. A sect? I thought to myself. Ever since I lived in Arezzo and discovered Propaganda Due head Licio Gelli was one of my neighbours, I've been on the lookout for masonic activities; apparently Italy is full of them (and you thought Dan Brown made it all up? Ha!) But no, they were simply renaming the street Via Colonello del Bosco - some random Bourbon guy whose army the Garibaldini defeated in Milazzo in July 1960,...

Oh no ... it's sirocco again...  Sirocco, if you haven’t experienced it, is like spending an entire day on the London Underground. You feel irritable, headachy, sweaty and dirty, have a stuffy nose and dusty clothes. I was at the fruttivendolo this morning, popping veg from the outdoor stalls into my bag. "I hate sirocco," the grocer said. "And you're Sicilian!" I said. "In Ireland we don't get this wind. It drives me CRAZY." He said, "It's bad news for my vegetables. I can't leave them untended outside because they get covered in black, dusty sand." He stopped, as I hesitated, my hand hovering over some luscious green beans.  That's it: sirocco gets EVERYWHERE. You can't hang your washing outside, unless you want dusty dried clothes. I left a window open by mistake last time and found my piano - my most prized possession - with little piles of sooty sand in the corners. And you need to be careful how you...

Snake on the steps, poo in the piazza... Another thing that always strikes me when I return is the state of the streets. Steps lead from this beautiful fifteenth century Spanish church to the school below where my son attends pre-school. On my way to pick him up last week I almost stepped on a snake that was slithering off into the overgrown bushes flanking the steps. I know there are snakes in Sicily, but I just don't expect to see them practically on my doorstep. Also last week my son and I were playing ball in the piazza while bambina snoozed in the stroller. But we had to give up because the ball kept rolling into dog poo... Dear Mr Mayor, could you kindly clean up the crap (or fine the losers who let their dogs do their business in the piazza), and cut the grass? And while you are at it, resurface our street, the potholes have ruined my car's suspension and the stroller wheels get stuck in them... I love Sicily, I do ...