Growing up in Australia, I thought of Italy as a more-or-less unified country in the same way Australia is (if one ignores the occasional crazy secession movements in Western Australia). However, the contrast between Sicily and the north of Italy really brought home to me the relative youth of Italy as a "unified" nation. Most of the people I met in Sicily spoke primarily the local dialect rather than "Italian". Perhaps most importantly to me, as a tourist, another key difference was in the food.
I love food but wouldn't dare call myself a "foodie". I suspect a foodie would read this post and scoff at how little I know about food. But simply as a person who likes food, I have to say that for me the difference between, say, Tuscan food and Sicilian food is stark. Whereas Tuscan food seems to employ big flavours (ripe and juicy tomatoes, delicious and sharp cheeses, garlic, capers and anchovies), Sicilian food is much more subtle. We spent most of our time in seaside areas, so a lot of the food was seafood, fresh and very simply prepared. However, even comparing the pasta dishes with those in the north I found noticeable differences. The pasta dishes in Sicily didn't involve the rich tomato-based sauces I associate with "Italian" food. A common dish was pasta with a sauce made of sardines, tomato, nuts and raisins. And in place of pecorino or parmesan cheese, breadcrumbs or chopped nuts seemed to be used in a lot of dishes.
Another popular dish was a seafood couscous dish. It sounds (and even looks) a bit more exciting than it in fact was.
The food was all nice. However, I have to say that, despite trying really hard (and eating a lot), Sicilian food didn't win me over. I didn't love it the way I love Tuscan food. The exception to this was the desserts, which were superb. I could happily live off Sicilian biscuits and desserts. I wouldn't live for long before my arteries became clogged and my heart failed, but it would be a happy life.
I also adored the mulberry granitas.
Sicily also boasted lots of fruit stands, selling delicious melons and figs. I noticed that some of the fruit stands were also offering for sale an unfamiliar fruit labeled fichi d'India. It wasn't something I'd ever seen before.
On one of the days we were in Trapani, we decided to have a picnic and so went to the local supermarket. There, I saw a tray of finchi d'India, in a cling-filmed box. They looked pretty harmless. I assumed they would be similar to custard apples.
We bought our food (including the mysterious fruit) and left the supermarket, returning to our hotel. There, I thought I'd pre-cut the fruit, so we could eat it with our fingers on our picnic. I took off the cling-film and picked one of the fruit up in my hand. It took me a few moments to feel the tingling in my hand. And at first I wasn't sure what had caused it. Then, when I looked closely, I saw what appeared to be thousands of tiny spines embedded in the skin on my hand. By that point, the tingling had turned to pain. It turns out that the English name for the finchi d'India is "Prickly Pear" and it is an apt name. G and I spent the next two hours with a pair of tweezers trying to remove the spines from my hand.
It was after that incident that I discovered that the fruit came from a cactus that grows like a weed in the area.
A few days later, when I told a local about my encounter with the prickly pear, he looked at me aghast. "You held the fichi d'India with no gloves?" He asked. "Why do you do that? You don't do that. You wear gloves and use the knife and cut it. Not hands". I explained that yes, I'd learned that lesson, albeit the hard way. I recognised the look this man gave me as he was talking - it was the same one I use for tourists in London who try and talk to strangers on the tube. It was the "you idiot tourist" look. Maybe it was my karma for feeling superior to the fluorescent-hatted tourists the previous day.
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