I keep a sesame biscotto in my freezer that is now going on 14 years old. It was from the last batch made by my Nonna, and somewhere in my mind if that petrified rock of lemon-scented flour, oil, sugar and eggs still exists, so does she.
On my mother’s side of the family, we are Sephardic Jews from Sicily. We were there 2,000 years ago when Greeks brought honey and almonds to the island. We were there during the Golden Age of Islam when the Arabs brought over sugar, flower essences and the tradition of ices and ice creams; we were there when a brief French occupation brought with it bigné and lulú, and when Sicily became part of the Spanish Empire, chocolate made its way back from Mexico with the conquistadors and into Sicilian sweets.
And then they kicked us out.
King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella issued The Alhambra Decree on March 31, 1492, ordering the expulsion of practicing Jews from the Crowns of Castile and Aragon and their territories by July 31 of that year. Three days later, they sent Columbus off to discover a shortcut to India.
From Sicily we fled to the Ottoman Empire, taking our language, religion and sweets with us.
That was half a millennium ago, and the memories that remain of the old, old country are sense memories, mostly: the aroma of anise-scented yeast breads embedded with a hard-boiled egg, crunchy breakfast biscotti showered in sesame seeds, quince and rose spoon sweets, kumquats sewn together with thread and candied, and a wheatberry porridge made by whoever spotted a baby’s first tooth. Sugar makes Sicilians happy, and it’s a sticky memory indeed.
Apart from the sweets, the language and familial grudges that will be taken to the grave, our Sicilian-ness was eclipsed by the past few centuries in the former Ottoman Empire. Like so many people exiled from their homeland, I yearned for some sort of ancestral connection. I found it in Sicily.
It was an article about a pastry cook that drew me there. This woman, Maria Grammatico, now in her 80s, had spent her childhood in a convent in the medieval town of Erice. There, the nuns taught her the ancient art of pastry making. She ran a shop in the same town and lamented that few young people wanted to learn the art of pastry making and feared it would soon be lost.
So did I. Although I received formal training as a pastry chef, the most precious culinary knowledge I possess is what I learned from my Nonna, who learned it from hers. That’s when I knew I had to go to Sicily and meet this woman, and maybe even learn a thing or two from her.
I had spent time in other parts of Italy (there was that time before the internet when I spent an entire month with a family I thought was mine but found out later weren’t even a little bit related) but never ventured farther south than Naples. This time, landing in Catania, it smelled like coffee, cigarettes and Chanel No. 5 – in other words: home. Turns out you can take the girl out of Sicily, but it takes more than a few centuries to take Sicily out of the girl.
I wrote this book, Sicily, My Sweet, as a personal love letter to Sicily and the sweet things from her kitchen. I gathered recipes from friends, family, friends-of-friends, in-laws, (thank you, Provie!), and from pasticciere, casalinghe, farmers, nuns, shopkeepers and anyone else willing to share their secrets with me. Many recipes I developed myself, inspired by the flavors of this bewitching and magical island.
I wish you tante belle cose – many beautiful things.
Editor's Note: This content was excerpted with permission from Sicily, My Sweet: Love Notes to an Island, with Recipes for Cakes, Cookies, Puddings, and Preserves by Victoria Granof, published by Hardie Grant Publishing, October 2024.
