St. Patrick's Day Sushi/Fried produce/Man-kinis & baby oil

Scopello last weekend.

St. Patrick's Day happened to fall on the 150^th anniversary of Italy's Unification, which is pretty much the opposite of Independence Day. Everyone used to be independent nation-states, but uniting under King Vittorio Emmanuel seemed like a great idea at the time. Historical footnote: one month later, the United States entered the Civil War.

Following unification in 1861, it was famously stated, “We have made Italy, now we must make Italians.” Yet today, just 44% of Italians speak the national language. Regional dialects continue to dominate, despite the march of globalization everywhere else on earth.

Scopello's main piazza 

The Northern League, a political party arguing for northern Italy to secede by establishing the independent nation of Padania, refused to recognize the holiday or even sing the national anthem in parliament. A few weeks ago, representatives from the party burned in effigy Guiseppe Garibaldi, a hero of the unification movement.

But in south, we spent the holiday the same way that independence is celebrated in the US: drinking under the sun in the afternoon as a grill is tended by a group of men.

Post-picnic/anchovy tasting

For dinner that evening, our desire for Asian fusion conflicted with my wish to celebrate the only day of the year when the world is interested in being Irish. Luckily the sushi place serves Guinness, so everyone was satisfied. Note: stout beer settles a belly full of raw fish.

On the same day that we were heralding Italian (dis)unity and leprechauns, our friend Gerry Meier arrived from Dallas for a long weekend in Palermo. Our picnic on the beach felt like the first real day of spring. There was a cool breeze and daunting clouds, but the sun continued shining as we worked our way through spicy salami, a brick of parmesan, a basket of oranges, a bundle of mini-strawberries, and bottles of beer. Meredith and I braved fresh anchovies from the outdoor market, which is just something you do when Gerry implores, “Oh, don't be a wuss... just try one.” Despite being soaked in garlic and red pepper flakes, I thought they tasted like Sea World.

As of this morning, my parents descended on Italy for the first time. Dad arrived wearing a Hawaiian shirt with tiny American flags all over it, so there's no hiding our place of origin as we wander the streets. I'm not sure what they are more impressed by thus far: the abundance of Smart Cars, or the art, architecture, history, and grandeur that is traditionally associated with the Eternal City.

I have neglected to include food discoveries for the past few updates, so I'll try to catch up. We are presently enjoying Lambrusco on a regular (twice daily) basis. It is a sweeter red wine, reminiscent of sangria, with the added excitement of carbonation. When I recall that Michael Jackson used to occasionally serve wine at his slumber parties, Lambrusco comes to mind. It goes great with lunch and right before dinner.

I have also realized the magic behind everything tasting so good. Sicilian cuisine does not leave the option for poor tasting food. If something hints at being mediocre, it is wrapped in bread crumbs and cheese before heading to the fryer. Take vegetables for example -- broccoli: battered and fried, cauliflower: battered/fried; scallions: wrapped in bacon, pan seared. Balls of rice with cheese in the middle? Wrap it in breadcrumbs, deep fry it, and let me know if you are hungry for the next 12-16 hours.

The regional pride in food is also becoming apparent. When we recently had a friend over for dinner, he was a bit offended in a kind way/surprised that we served polenta, a northern Italian dish. He recommended that time I try serving crostini di polenta – deep fried polenta.

My latest lunch obsession is pasta carbonara. Heat some pasta in boiling water. Take a bit of cubed pancetta and sear it with diced onions and garlic, then add peas. Separately, beat one egg in a bowl with a splash of milk and a small handful of parmesan. When the pasta is finished, toss it with the egg and cheese mixture, then pour the pancetta/garlic/onions/peas over the top. You get a creamy sauce that encompasses all of the food groups. Dust it with a healthy dose of black pepper. Delicious.

The last delicacy that I will describe may not sound great, but it is phenomenal. (I realize it is difficult to read the following description in view of picture below, so do your best to separate the two in your mind). Almost all of the meat here is some variation of salt cured pork, but bresaola has a place of its own in the pantheon of pig meat. It is much more tender and nearly purple or maroon in color. A slice of that is rolled up, filled with cream cheese, and sprinkled with pistachios. Its like a savory cannoli.

My birthday is in 3 weeks.

Warm temperatures have arrived for good, offering the locals a two for one deal when it comes to seeking cancer: smoking on the beach while covered in baby oil. You actually have to go to a pharmacy and have lab-coated technician unlock a cabinet if you want something resembling sunscreen.

Also spied on the beach: man-kinis that expose more skin than anyone is interested in seeing, which goes a long way in explaining why Meredith can never bring herself to read on the beach. Too many distractions.

The name of this is actually translated as, mother-in-law's pillow.
Jean, let's be real: son-in-law would be a much more fitting name. 

So beautiful! And the view isn't bad either :)