Farmacia e Tortorello
Upstairs, I got everything cleaned and the perennial laundry washed and hung, then started yet another batch of chocolate chip cookies, confident I've got the high-altitude, Italian-substitute- ingredient, Fahrenheit to Celsius, cups and tsp to grams finally figured out! I'm leaving the cookie production area as the last to clean.
The cookies are 98% there. Don't let perfection be the thief of joy, Kahren. Between testing and tweaking, I ate six cookies. Now I understand why all those ceramic figures of bakers are portly portrayals.
Joe wanted to walk to the farmacia, and it was nearly noon. I said I'd finish the current batch in the oven, shove the rest of the dough into the fridge, and head there before the 1-4 pm shutdown.
There was a line, and people were taking numbers. We stepped to the end of it. My favorite farmacista walked out of the back room, saw me, waved and smiled, and beckoned me over while she opened another register. Again; I love her! She saw that I was holding a room freshener and soap with a panettone scent. I liked the idea of it for Christmas. She asked if I had smelled it before (there were no samples; I was buying in good faith of this parfumeria). No, I admitted. "Ecco," she indicated, as I followed her to the cosmetics counter. She took my hand and sprayed it. "È come un forno pieno di panettone è accanto a me," I exclaimed. It smells like panettone baking! "Sì, frutta candita," she agreed; candied fruit. She explained that when they first got the shipment, she bought some and sprayed it on her top bedsheet, she loves it so much. As do I! It's light and uncloying and elegant.
We went back to the cassa, where I paid, and she held up a hand cream. "Un regalo," a gift, along with a bunch of sample creams and face wash packets.
I had a few questions about some products, just as Joe had finally inched up the line, paid a whopping couple of bucks for his prescription medicine, and came over to us. I introduced her to my husband, imagining she's probably sad that I'm not a lesbian, although I told Joe, if I were ever to swing over, it'd be for her, since she's perfect. At one time it was Amy Winehouse, but we all know why that can't happen anymore.
Next, a walk up the viale to get pork chops at Joe's favorite pork chop butcher. While he was asking for them at the counter, I noticed the cheap plastic litres of what I call local hallucinogens; the quick homemade wine produced from grapes around the area. Since there's always an ancient Nonna or Nonno parked on a what appears to be a tortuously uncomfortable chair, usually near the cassa checkout point (they're always watching), I was being heard and observed. The old man, arms crossed and looking like a Sicilian Buddha, and evidently a stroke victim, stuttered out, "Deh deh deh di dove sei?" Where are you from? I have my pat response, narrowing down that broad swath between New York and Hollywood to add words like 'Canadian Boundary' and 'Mississippi River'. His eyes lit up, and now, a woman close to my age, who I assume is his daughter, moved from the cassa, closer to him, listening and smiling. The Nonno, like our dear Nonno who just passed always did, asked about the snow, about the cold, and talked about snow on Etna the other day. Yes, but for us, here it is still warm, I said! He motioned fanning himself, saying this late in November, it's hot for them as well. Too warm, maybe. Yes; I added, but at least you don't have to shovel the heat! And I did a little shoveling-a-path dance toward the door. They both chuckled as we were leaving, and told us, that wine is from Gangi. I don't know if that was simple information or if it were a warning.
Now to Ortofrutta Fratelli Stissi. We waited for (Alessandro?), always sporting a track suit and aviator glasses, as he finished helping customers ahead of us. I asked one couple directly in front of me if the fruit near my elbow were cacamele. They said yes. Do they need to be peeled first? They went on to explain about the fruit, seeing that I'm a cacamele virgin, saying they're sweet, best eaten raw, and pointed out the colors that would be good to eat right now. Cacamele are somewhere between a persimmon and an apple, in the persimmon family. They're firmer, but not crunchy. I read about them in a story, and upon seeing these, I guessed that's what they were. We bought two to try.
I needed a sewing kit to mend the hole in my new sweater. I told Joe my best luck finding one will be at one of the two main Chinese stores. He offered to take my bags and walk home while I went there.
First, though, I have a hankering for tortorello, or, as my grandpa pronounced it, ter-ta-dilll, and Stissi didn't have it (top photo). I ventured to the sidewalk-blocking ortofrutta, a few steps from the Chinese store. I tried to explain or find a photo of it, because I know I've seen it there, but have no idea what it's called in Sicilian (Google fail). I spoke to the young man, saying it's a melon that grows like a cucumber, sometimes in a spiral, and it has a beard. He looked utterly confused, not by my translation, thank goodness, but because he didn't know this produce, even though I explained I've seen it there. He reached into a crate up high (he's tall), pulling out a fuzzy light green bocce-ball. Interesting. My imported tortorello seeds grew in that shape in my home garden this year, which I had assumed to be a failure. I said I'll try that, and I'll put it with these cherry tomatoes, to make a salad. No, he corrected me, the datterini tomatoes next to those will be better in the salad. Duly noted.
I paid him and crossed the deathly intersection to the other Chinese store. There are four of them, but I only go to two. The people at this location are not smiley and friendly, and in fact, follow me throughout the crowded and dimly-lit store. In my head I'm saying, I wouldn't want most of the shit in here if it were free; I'm not gonna steal your crap, don't worry! I found a sewing kit for €1, and a little memory game toy for Ettore, €5.
Joe was already plated up for his lunch while I washed the produce and made the tortorello-datterini salad, which he immediately dug into. We chatted about the financial book he's reading, and the current chapter about older folks and money so aptly describes my mom, I almost cried and screamed simultaneously. But restraint won.
After lunch, I finished baking the cookies, then did a massive clean up. I hear kids playing, and usually Ettore arrives about now, but if I end up just taking a nap, that's ok too.
I brought cookies to Mariella's, but she was out. Rodi was there with the boys and Agnese. I invited the kids up, but they were deep into their drug (TV). Agnese, however, ate a cookie and complimented me (as did Rodi).
I said, ok; come up and play later, if you want. I'm not going to sit here and watch you watch TV.
We're losing power on and off; the fierce wind may have something to do with that.
I zoned out a bit and now I think I'll try calling my sister while Joe prepares supper on the grill.
It's my night off.
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