Festa della Sacra Cuore
It is hot hot hot. We, or rather, my conversion app, did the math. Vincenzo credits these temperatures to the Scirocco (sirocco) winds, hot and humid gusts flowing over the southern Mediterranean basin from Africa to Southern Europe. The trick is to do very little but swim, and that works just fine for me.
Speaking of Vincenzo, Ettore, Agnese, and I spent part of the morning making welcome home signs. Mariella hung them outside. He was to be home before lunchtime.
After the rest of us ate breakfast, Joe came down and had a late one—on schedule with Agnese, who found his lap.
I saw that Ettore’s bike pedal had fallen off, but the simple task fell to Joe’s hands, as I couldn’t manage to wrench it on just right. He’s becoming the vineyard handyman.
We spent a lot of time indoors today. At one point, Mariella excitedly approached, showing a notice on her phone that Geox is having a huge sale starting today. Of course. Joe bought his yesterday! Elena asked what kind of Geox Joe bought. I explained that they’re the form of a sneaker, but made of leather and suede (I made the mistake of comparing them to bowling shoes with Joe). I said he wanted something to wear here, both for walking around wearing long pants, and for playing tennis, when he wears them with low white socks.
“Does he think he’s German?! What the hell!” said Elena, jokingly, I think. But it’s true. White socks are scarcely if ever seen here, except perhaps with gym shoes.
We ate lunch inside. Rigatoni with crema di pepperoni, a silky Sicilian red pepper sauce. Mmmmmm. Next, the local version of (loosely comparable) veggie burgers, the family’s own olives with red onion, and Portulaca. Yes, gardener friends! Portulaca—the Moss Rose—is edible. This particular version is selvatica (wild), and similar to purslane, which we know as a weed back home, but only because it doesn’t sport flowers of any significance, and this isn’t exactly a weed. With vinegar, olive oil, garlic, a teensy few slivers of onion, and a thimble of fresh mint, I could eat this greenery for a solid month without stopping. Nonno hand picked every tiny sprig.
After lunch, a small repose, then we descended into the inferno of the town to pick up water, wine, and sundries, and stopped at our flat to shampoo and shower at our own pace. There’s nothing like that moment you’re fresh and clean (after a string of hot days and only pool bathing) that makes you feel beautiful.
We stopped at the 3-spigot fresh Etna snow water fountain to see if we’d have better luck today than yesterday. A man pulled up just before us, and went through all the same motions we did earlier. He thinks it’s too hot, and the fresh run from Etna is dried up. We both said we’d keep checking!
The town was setting up for their Festa della Sacra Cuore. Banners, candlelit streets, food vendors—the church is reopening after a facelift. Explaining this to Mariella and Elena, they said “Vai! Vai!” Go!!! We invited Agnese to join us, as she was just scolded for literally hanging on Joe all afternoon, and she felt pretty bad about it. She changed into clean clothes, as did Joe and I, and we made the short descent into town.
We stepped into the hot church—parishioners were fanning themselves—and caught the end of the mass. Two Bishops (current one and retired one) presided. We saw Alessandro, in full deacon’s vestments, along with Padre Pino from the Mother Church, and Padre Giuseppe, our friend, who stopped during the recessional to pat my forearm. We spotted Maria Teresa near the door; both she and Alessandro were surprised to see Agnese there! And Agnese was thrilled to see her best friend there. The bishops loaded into their cars, surrounded by security forces in separate vehicles. This seemingly sleepless town has a lot going on.
We made a quick stop at Artigiana for a gelato dessert before supper. Joe ordered Zuppa Inglese flavor, and, although I asked for a taste of it, I ended up ordering my favorite—pistachio. I’ve ordered the same thing from Artigiana without fail. “Tutto pistachio?” asked the handsome scoop. Yes; all pistachio (often, two flavors are put in one cup or cone). “Per favore, signora, assaggia questo”. He handed me an enormous spoonful of gelato he wanted me to taste. Wow. What is this? Pistachio, amarena cherry, deep dark chocolate flecks, and occasional bits of biscotto. Ok. Make mine with half of that. He smiled. I’d been converted.
Back at the vigne, we had a simple supper for a hot day; mixed salumeria and cheeses; bread, fried eggs, and to my delight, more Portulaca.
As I’ve been writing this, and we’re tucking in for the night, we have constellations above who’ve been serenaded along with us, by a saxophone player somewhere off at a neighboring vineyard.
Sweet on sweet.
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