Lindsay Marie Morris

Meghan Birnbaum has been sharing food as @meghanitup since March 2020, when her newly remodeled kitchen provided the perfect backdrop for showcasing recipes. Many of these dishes and desserts were inspired by her Palermo-born grandmother's culinary creations. Meghan's favorite? Stuffed artichokes (carciofi ripieni).

"They were a meal, and we each got one, except my dad and I would share one," she remembers. "He would always give me the heart; it's so symbolic. He gave me his heart, and that's the best part."

 

Through her "Authentic Sicilian Stuffed Artichokes" recipe, Meghan hopes to share the love. We recently chatted about her rendition of this traditional dish, sourcing ingredients, selecting and preparing artichokes, the best way to cook these vegetables, and more.

 

Tell us about your grandmother and how she inspired this recipe.

My grandma came through Ellis Island with her dad and her mom and then moved to St. Louis. She had two sisters and a brother. Her brother went to World War II and didn't come home; it was just her and her sisters. They each bought a house, and the backyards all backed up into each other's, so they essentially shared a yard.

 

My grandpa was a sheet metal worker, and my grandma was the cook of the family. She had four kids. She didn't know how to drive. She never had a job. She just took care of the family. 

 

She watched me as a kid while my parents were working. My grandma didn't write down any of her recipes, so I am recreating everything my family and I remember based on taste, smell, and feel. It took me a while to get this recipe down.

 

Peak artichoke season is June through September, but supermarkets carry them year-round.

How do you source your ingredients?

Living in Southern California has many advantages. We have many great farmers markets, and then we have Eataly. That's obviously not available to everybody, but I mean, there are a lot of stores; even in St. Louis, where I grew up, there's a little meat market called Mannino's. It's an Italian market, and you just start talking to people about their connection to Italy. They'll tell you, "These are the best breadcrumbs" or "This is the best bread." 

 

How do you select artichokes?

You're going to want a big, round artichoke. And if the leaves have kind of moved away from the center, it's going to be even easier to make. The tighter and the smaller, the harder it is to prep and stuff. The bigger and more bloomed, the easier it'll be to do that.

 

Trimmed artichokes photo by Meghan Birnbaum

Walk us through how you prepare the artichokes for cooking.

Having the right tools is really important. When I prepare artichokes, I use three different kinds of knives and a peeler. You also have to trim the leaves, so I use scissors.

 

I use a pretty big knife to cut the top off. You want a sharp, heavy-duty knife. It's pretty tough to get through, and it's not stable because the artichoke is round and on its side. You want to have something that can cut through pretty well. Then, I use a paring knife to cut the bottom and a peeler to thin out the skin on the stem. 

I recommend a bucket or a bowl of water with lemon juice in it to prevent the artichokes from browning. The artichokes will brown regardless of what you do, but this minimizes that. 

It's kind of labor intensive, but I feel like I've gotten it down and find it very therapeutic. The more you do it, the easier it becomes. But preparing the artichoke is definitely the hardest part because of how many steps and tools you need just to get it done. 

 

That gets rid of all the prickly parts except for the heart, which is difficult to reach. If somebody tells you to remove the heart and the center of the artichoke before it's cooked, I don't know if they've done that before because it's really impossible. You should steam it for 10 to 15 minutes before you use a spoon to remove those parts. 

 

 
Breadcrumbs make this recipe Sicilian. Photo by Meghan Birnbaum.

Do you have any tips for preparing the artichoke stuffing?

It's truly just garlic in olive oil until you can smell it, and then I put in the breadcrumbs. It has to be on a medium to low heat, and you cannot walk away. You need to just constantly stir. The second you see color on those breadcrumbs, you kill the heat and keep stirring. It's going to keep browning. 

 

Add two inches of water to the pan. Photo by Meghan Birnbaum.

What's the best way to cook stuffed artichokes?

My favorite is just steaming them, and I've done it a few different ways. Sometimes, when I steam them, the water rises too high and kind of goes over the top, so the breadcrumbs on the top become mushy, which is fine. It's mushy on the inside, too, and that's a good texture. So if one batch boils over and it gets mushy, I'm still going to enjoy it. But I love it when I steam it just enough that it doesn't get to the top, and the top is still brown and crispy. When it's gotten mushy on top, I put it in the oven afterward to crisp it, but it's kind of a lost cause at that point if there's too much water on the top of the breadcrumbs. 

I have baked before. That was a more fool-proof method. If you want to make sure you just get crispiness on it, you just put a little water into the pan, and then it'll steam and bake at the same time. 

 

What do you hope people will take away from this recipe?

It's an intimidating recipe, but it's also one that you just don't find in restaurants. So I hope that people will feel encouraged to make this and know that they can make traditional recipes that are not restaurant recipes but rather home recipes.

 

It uses fresh, homegrown ingredients with very Mediterranean vibes. Homemade bread does not go to waste because you're grinding it into breadcrumbs. You're also really utilizing the harvest of the olives and the olive oil. It is like a little Mediterranean treat using what the resources and the produce available have to offer.

 

>>Get Meghan's full stuffed artichokes recipe here!<<

 

 

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A thick and spongy savory tomato pie, sfincione is the grandmother of what Americans call Sicilian pizza. As is typical in Western Sicily, my nonna would top hers with anchovies, onions, breadcrumbs, and cheese. We looked forward to enjoying it with our Christmas Eve feast, always saving some room for her cookies.

Nonna rarely wrote her recipes; when she did, there were never any measurements. Luckily, folks like Italian-American siblings Michele and Joe Becci of Our Italian Table are doing their part to preserve food traditions. Their recipe for sfincione is approachable, and the result resembles what Nonna would have prepared.

I recently corresponded with Michele and Joe, who shared their background and connection to this recipe, how sfincione differs from pizza, favorite side dishes, and more.

 

 

Tell us about your background.

We are two siblings who grew up as second-generation Italian Americans in the small town of Phillipsburg, New Jersey—a place that welcomed a large influx of Italian immigrants in the early 20th century. Our love of cooking began in our childhood, helping our mother in the kitchen. Standing on chairs, we would roll pasta dough, shape gnocchi, or (gently) stir the simmering pot of passatelli. Together, we rolled meatballs, kneaded dough, helped make the sauce, and fried eggplant. Our mother was forever sharing her specialties with family and neighbors, near and far. Thankfully, she passed on her passion for cooking to us.

 

Our grandparents emigrated from Sicily, Naples, and Marche in Italy. Their arduous journey across the sea to a new life only deepened their desire to continue the traditions and rhythms of their former lives in a new land and build a life surrounded by the love of family. Growing up, large family gatherings were the norm, and good food was the foundation for a lifetime of memories filled with laughter and love. 

This celebration of family, tradition, and Italian culture is at the heart of everything we do, which is why we first launched Our Italian Table, our food blog, over 15 years ago. Working from opposite coasts—Joey in California and Michele in Pennsylvania—our blog has brought us great joy, allowing us to share our passion with our readers. Today, Our Italian Table has grown to include our annual magazines (our most recent issue, "From Sicily, With Love," is over 100 pages dedicated to the land of our maternal grandparents, Sicily) and our recently launched podcast, A Tavola, along with an online shop that features carefully curated Italian products from artisans we know and love—items we proudly use in our own homes and kitchens here in the U.S.   

 

What is your connection to this recipe?

Our mother's family is from Santo Stefano di Camastra in Sicily. Many from her village immigrated to the town in the U.S. where we grew up, Phillipsburg. There was a bakery called the New York Italian Bakery, an institution that had been around for over 40 years. We can still remember how excited we would be when we would jump in our Dad's station wagon for a trip to the bakery. The aromas in the bakery were magical—the smell of the piles and piles of breads and Italian cookies gleaming behind the glass display cases—but our favorite display case was the one that held the trays of Sicilian pizza, oily and thick and tomatoey. Whenever our parents allowed us to have a slice of pizza, they would scoop a slice out of the pan and hand it over to us, oily against the parchment paper. We were made to wait until we were back in the car to eat our prized possession, and we devoured it.  

 

How is sfincione different from pizza?

Sfincione, often called "Sicilian pizza," is quite distinct from the classic pizza most people know. It's not the thin, crisp-crusted Neapolitan or New York-style varieties. Sfincione has a thick, soft, and fluffy crust, more akin to focaccia. It's baked in a rectangular pan, which helps create a thick, spongy base that's both light and substantial. The name "sfincione" itself hints at its texture, derived from the Latin word spongia, meaning "sponge." 

 

The dough is covered with a mix of onions sautéed with tomatoes, anchovies, and breadcrumbs, which add a bit of savory crunch. Cheese—usually grated caciocavallo or pecorino—is sprinkled over the top. The anchovies, onions, and robust cheese provide a savory punch, while breadcrumbs on top add texture and a rustic finish. Oregano, Sicilian oregano if you can find it, is used in the sauce, giving it a unique Sicilian flavor. 

 

What are some popular sfincione side dishes?

We love to serve sfincione as part of an antipasti board that includes maybe a simple mix of briny olives, cured meats, and cheeses. When served as a meal, we love to serve a bright, lemony salad, perhaps peppery arugula dressed lightly with lemon juice and shaved Parmigiano. A classic Sicilian fennel and orange salad also works beautifully to add brightness alongside the deep flavors of the sfincione. Occasionally, when we have a larger crowd, we might also serve a platter of seasonal grilled vegetables such as zucchini, eggplant, and peppers drizzled with extra-virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar. 

 

What do you hope readers take away from your recipe?

We want readers to come away with a sense of Sicily's culinary soul and an appreciation for the simplicity and depth of flavors that define traditional Sicilian dishes. Sfincione isn't just a "Sicilian pizza"—it's a rustic, satisfying dish with a story, a connection to Sicilian street food culture, and a distinct personality… a taste of Sicily in its most comforting form, a reminder of the island's ability to transform humble ingredients into something memorable and delicious. We also hope that our readers will feel inspired to make sfincione at home and to gather and enjoy it like in Sicily, where sfincione is meant to be savored slowly, with friends and family, in the warmth of community.

 

>>Get Our Italian Table's sfincione recipe here!<<

 

 

 

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Growing up, we never had jarred pasta. My mother was known for her sauce, something she'd mastered by watching her mother and grandmother. In less than half an hour, she'd whip up a simple marinara that was rich in flavor, thanks to a couple of cloves of garlic, a bay leaf, a pinch of nutmeg, and another pinch of sugar. She's always maintained that one doesn't need to sweat over the stove for hours. 

 

Jersey Girl Cooks blogger Lisa Grant agrees. Her "25-Minute Easy Marinara Sauce" doesn't require fancy ingredients or cooking techniques. She simply sautées garlic in olive oil before pouring in a large can of crushed tomatoes, a few herbs and spices, and a pinch of sugar. 

Lisa shared her background, her childhood association with tomato sauce, her favorite way to enhance marinara sauce flavor, why making your own pasta sauce is better, and her favorite ways to enjoy red sauces.

 

 

What is your background as a cook?

I am a home cook and have loved cooking since I was 10 years old. I became a blogger over 15 years ago and have since written two beginner cookbooks: The Super Easy Cookbook for Beginners and The 5-Ingredient Dutch Oven Cookbook. I love helping people cook easy meals!

 

Do you have Italian family?

My dad was from an island in Croatia (Susak) that once belonged to Italy, so the cooking is very Italian-influenced. On my mom's side, some of the family was from northern Italy, including Trieste. 

 

What memories do you associate with tomato sauce?

We typically had Sunday dinner, which included a huge bowl of pasta with "gravy." This was a red sauce with various meats in it. 

 

Can you share any tips for enhancing the flavor of the sauce?

I love using fresh-grown New Jersey crushed tomatoes that I keep in my freezer, but I don't have them all year round, so a good brand of crushed tomatoes works well, especially during the winter months. 

 

Why should you make your own instead of buying a jar?

It is so much better, and you can regulate the salt and spices. 

 

How do you use this marinara sauce?

I love this sauce with any type of pasta, but it is also terrific as a dipping sauce for recipes like oven-fried zucchini. 

 

What do you hope people take away from your recipes? 

You can cook good food at home without stress. I love socializing at the dinner table!

 

>>Get Lisa's 25-minute Easy Marinara Sauce recipe here!<<

 

 

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Bulbous and green with antennae-like leaves, the kohlrabi almost resembles a cartoon alien rather than the brassica vegetable that it is. Also called German turnip or turnip cabbage, this cultivar of wild cabbage is not typically found in supermarkets. Instead, it shows up at specialty grocers or farmers markets. 

 

Kohlrabi, which ranges in color from pale green to purple, can be eaten raw or cooked, from its broad leaves to its hearty stems and bulbs. My Sicilian grandmother used the whole vegetable in soups and stews; she ate it frequently in Sicily.

 

Kohlrabi has been eaten in Italy since at least 1554, when Siena-born botanist Pietro Adrea Mattioli wrote that the vegetable had "come lately into Italy." Not long after, kohlrabi spread to North Europe and was being grown in England, Germany, Austria, Italy, Spain, Tripoli, and parts of the eastern Mediterranean.

I recently stumbled on a blog post by Marisa Raniolo Wilkins of All Things Sicilian and More about the ways kohlrabi is eaten in Sicily. 

 

I reached out to Marisa, who is based in Australia, to learn more about her background and experience with this vegetable. She shared her reflections on kohlrabi's significance in Sicilian cuisine and her favorite kohlrabi recipes. 

 

 

Where is your family from in Sicily, and how did you end up in Australia?

My Sicilian background is a blend of two Sicilian regions—Catania and Ragusa—and enriched my very different life in Trieste. My mother was born in Catania but moved to Trieste when she was just five years old. When she was fourteen, life for my mother changed when my grandfather died, prompting part of her family to return to Sicily, primarily to Augusta, while she chose to stay with her eldest brother and his wife in Trieste. One other brother also remained in Trieste.

 

My father met my mother while stationed in Trieste during World War II. They traveled briefly to Sicily, where they married in Catania before returning to Trieste. Although the war had ended, Trieste remained in political and military turmoil through what was, for all intents and purposes, a civil war. And during her pregnancy, my mother felt unsafe. So, in the last weeks of her pregnancy, my parents caught a train to Sicily, and I was born in my paternal grandparents' home in Ragusa. A few weeks later, they caught the train home to Trieste, where I grew up, and remained until we came to Australia.

 

Our family was deeply connected to our Sicilian roots, spending summers in Sicily and welcoming relatives who visited us in Trieste. My maternal grandmother would stay with us for a month, filling our home with the scents and flavors of her Catanese cooking, especially seafood. My mother's family has always been tied to the sea, whether in Catania, Trieste, or Augusta, and much of my culinary knowledge about fish comes from her family. My fondness for eating fish partly contributed to my book Sicilian Seafood Cooking (now out of print).

 

When I was eight, we sailed to Australia, driven by my father's spirit of exploration. We went directly to Adelaide, which was chosen as a city reminiscent of Trieste's size rather than a larger city like Sydney or Melbourne. Despite our new life, we continued to make regular trips back to Italy, both to Trieste and Sicily, further deepening my appreciation of my heritage. As an adult, I made regular trips to Italy and explored many other regions—and other countries.

 

I feel fortunate to have been exposed to regional Italian and Sicilian cuisines with all their variations. Traveling to different countries and living in Australia have exposed me to the wealth of multicultural cuisines that are evident in this country. My knowledge, experiences, and opportunities to make connections between cuisines have enriched my understanding and appreciation of Sicilian cooking and its flavors. Sicilian cuisine remains unique due to its historical influences, ingredients, and methods of cooking. 

 

What inspired you to write about kohlrabi's role in Sicilian cuisine?

My inspiration to write about kohlrabi and its role in Sicilian cuisine stems from the memorable family tradition of cooking this vegetable in Ragusa, my father's hometown. 

 

The significance of kohlrabi in his family went beyond cooking this vegetable. Kohlrabi was a centerpiece of family feasts that brought everyone together, including the buying of the vegetables, the preparation, and the sharing of the cooked meal with the family. 

 

Regarding the purchasing of the vegetable, my father's two sisters (my two aunts) and one cousin who lived on different floors of the same building purchased their vegetables and fruit from a trusted local traveling ortalano (seller of fruit vegetables), who came around every morning—excluding Sunday—with his van. Each time I visited my Sicilian aunts in Ragusa, I had this unique experience where the squawk of the ortolano was heard from the street below their apartments, announcing his arrival. When it was in season, the leafy bunches of kohlrabi were such prized produce.

 

Out would come their purses and their baskets tied to the end of a rope, and they'd go to their balconies where they questioned the ortolano in detail about the quality of his produce. If satisfied, they lowered their baskets, which he filled. They hauled them back up, examined the contents, and only then, if convinced, lowered their basket once again with the money tucked inside it. Then, the aunties would make special requests for the next day, entreating him to visit them first so that they had the best produce. Sometimes, they traveled down to the van in their slippers and dressing gowns.

 

Then, there was the preparation of the kohlrabi. I have particularly fond memories of one of the Ragusa aunts, a remarkable cook who implemented the cooking and eating of this special dish. She is a champion pasta maker and ensured there was fresh pasta for family gatherings. The kohlrabi dish always featured a distinctive pasta known as causunnedda, the regional Sicilian name for this short pasta shape. The atmosphere of these family gatherings was gratifying. There was laughter, stories, fondness for the family, and the pleasures associated with sharing the meal and eating something delicious.

Kohlrabi are called cavoli in Sicily; in Italian, it is known as cavolo rapa. Cavolo is the generic term for some of the brassicas; for example, cavolo verza is a cabbage, cavolo nero is Tuscan cabbage, cavolo rosso is red cabbage, and in Italian, cavoli are cauliflowers. (Just to confuse things even further, Sicilians call cauliflowers broccoli.)

 
In the Ragusa family, they referred to the whole dish as causunnedda. I am assuming this was the abbreviation of causunnedda chi cavoli (Sicilian), causunnedda with kohlrabi.

 

How can one forget and not celebrate these memories?

 

The Ragusani are known for their straightforward, flavorful dishes, which focus on local produce, rich meats—especially pork—and seasonal vegetables. This emphasis on simplicity has profoundly shaped my understanding of cooking, showing me that the best meals often come from the freshest ingredients and heartfelt traditions.

 

Spending time with my father's family, particularly with this aunt, has further deepened my passion for Sicilian cooking. She has been a treasure trove of knowledge, eager to share recipes and techniques, knowing how much I cherished my heritage. Through her stories and guidance, I've come to appreciate the intricate web of flavors, customs, and memories that define Sicilian cuisine—making kohlrabi not just a vegetable but a symbol of family connection and culinary history.

 

How significant is kohlrabi in Sicilian cuisine compared to other vegetables?

Kohlrabi's significance in Sicilian cuisine may be modest compared to more popular common vegetables like tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, or green leafy vegetables (this includes wild greens). 

What is unique in the cooking of this vegetable is the emphasis placed on the kohlrabi leaves, often considered more valuable than the bulb itself. They are sold in bunches; the bulbs are smaller than I have found in Australia, and there are many leaves. There are purple-colored kohlrabi and light green. What I experienced in Ragusa were the light green ones, whereas in Syracuse, they were an attractive purple with some green. In Australia, at least in Melbourne, where I live, I have only seen green ones.

 

Purple kohlrabi. Photo by Marisa Raniolo Wilkins

 

How does kohlrabi use vary regionally?

While my mother's side of the family excelled in their own culinary traditions, I didn't encounter kohlrabi in her family. Instead, it was in Ragusa that I truly came to appreciate its significance.

In Sicily, as in other parts of Italy, kohlrabi is often simply boiled, drained, and then presented as a cooked salad, dressed with a generous drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, a sprinkle of salt, and either lemon juice or vinegar. This method, while straightforward, showcases the humble quality of the ingredients.  

In the fertile region of Acireale, just north of Catania and rich with the volcanic soil of Mount Etna, kohlrabi takes on a different role. Here, it's not just a simple side dish but a flavorful dressing for pasta. The vegetables (bulb and leaves) are boiled and drained, and the cooking water is preserved to cook the pasta. The drained vegetables are sautéed in hot oil with garlic and chili that creates a vibrant dish that might also include a splash of tomato for added depth. I recently contacted my cousin in Augusta, just south of Catania, who said that she follows a similar method but enriches the depth of flavor with anchovies during the sautéing process, illustrating the creativity inherent in Sicilian cooking.

What sets Ragusa apart is how the Ragusani relatives have a distinct way of cooking it. They use homemade causunnedda, but they also add fresh pork rind to the water while cooking the kohlrabi, infusing it with the rich flavor of the homemade broth. 

The causunnedda is then cooked in this flavorful broth, which transforms it into something delicious, turning a humble vegetable into a celebration of local flavors and family heritage.

In my mother's family, broth is typically made with chicken, veal, or beef—never fresh pork. This stark contrast highlights how regional traditions shape our understanding of food. These traditional methods and unique techniques not only enrich the dish, but also weave a narrative of family, community and culture. 

 

What is your favorite way to prepare and enjoy kohlrabi?

My favorite way to prepare and enjoy kohlrabi is a blend of tradition and creativity inspired by both my Sicilian roots and modern culinary trends. Here in Australia, kohlrabi has sparse green leaves, which is a departure from the leafy bunches I remember from Sicily. When I do come across kohlrabi with its leafy greens intact, it becomes a richer experience.

 

I treat the leaves much like I would cook cime di rapa or broccoli in a classic pasta dish with the greens and bulb sautéed with garlic and a little chili. Often, I have had to buy bunches of kale to increase the number of green leaves. Recently, my cousin in Augusta shared a brilliant tip of also adding anchovies while sautéing the vegetables. I do this often when I am preparing other vegetables, and it makes sense to do this with kohlrabi. I am looking forward to trying this.

 

Of course, I've also embraced contemporary ways of preparing kohlrabi, especially with exposure to how it is prepared in other countries. I like it in crisp salads or rich soups, showcasing its versatility. But there's something profoundly satisfying about returning to those old Sicilian traditions, reminding me of family meals where ingredients and preparation were cherished. Each preparation tells a story—of the past, family, and the flavors that unite us across time and distance.

 

What do you hope readers will take away from your recipes?

What I hope readers will take away from my recipes is a rich tapestry of connection, nostalgia, and inspiration. For those who have traveled to Sicily, I would like them to remember their culinary adventures and the vibrancy and beauty of Sicily.

 

For readers unfamiliar with Sicilian cooking, I hope to introduce them to its unique flavors and traditions, exemplifying how it diverges from the more commonly known Italian cuisine and its regions.

 

Many of my readers are second-generation Sicilian Americans who cherish the recipes and stories that connect them to their heritage. I hope my recipes spark memories of family gatherings, the aromas in their grandparents' kitchens, and the warmth of shared meals. Sharing these recipes would be very rewarding if they not only valued those memories, cooked those recipes, and also passed on the traditions to the next generation.

 

Cooking becomes more than just a task; it transforms into a celebration of culture and history. Therefore, most of all, I would like to inspire curiosity about Sicilian cuisine and to motivate them to explore its diverse ingredients and techniques. Cooking Sicilian recipes should increase understanding of the broader regional variations within the cuisine of Italy. 

 

>>Get Marisa's wet pasta dish with kohlrabi recipe here!<<

 

 

 

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It was late afternoon when our bus rolled into Catania. After checking into our hotel, we wandered over to a cafe across the street, which proudly advertised "Sicilian Bruschetta." 

 

My Sicilian family never served bruschetta. Growing up in Wisconsin, it was just something I'd find at a hip trattoria. So I assumed this menu item was geared toward American tourists, who pronounce it "broo-shetta" instead of the Italian "broo-sketta." 

 

Still, I was intrigued. What made this bruschetta Sicilian?

We ordered a plate, and it was delightful: sweet Sicilian tomatoes, fresh basil, crunchy caper berries, roasted garlic, and just the right amount of olive oil and vinegar. It was a celebration of Sicilian culture on crunchy, toasted bread.

 

But I wondered. Was bruschetta really Italian? Where did it come from?

 

For one thing, it probably didn't originate in Sicily. There are some who say that the Etruscans invented bruschetta; it was a way of dressing stale, saltless bread. Or perhaps it was the Ancient Romans. Either way, the appetizer has likely existed nearly as long as olive oil, according to the late James Beard Foundation Lifetime Achievement winner and Italian cooking writer Marcella Hazan, who wrote about bruschetta in The Classic Italian Cookbook. As for the name, she explained, "bruschetta comes from bruscare, which means 'to roast over coals.'"

 

I recently stumbled on a YouTube video of another Sicilian bruschetta recipe. Produced by Francesco Elia, aka Tortellino, this recipe starts with good-quality bread: a fresh-baked pane nero di Castelvetrano loaf made from tumminia durum, which, like bruschetta, has ties to Ancient Rome. According to Francesco, this was also the go-to bread during World War II when other flours were harder to come by. 

 

Francesco mixes his toppings—tomato, basil, garlic, salt, and pepper—with extra virgin olive oil and vinegar. He lets the mixture sit and marinate for several minutes to let the flavors blend. During that time, he bakes the slices until the edges are golden but not too crispy. 

 

I contacted Francesco, a Sicilian born in Catania who now lives in the United Kingdom, to chat about this popular antipasti offering, its preparation, how to keep bruschetta crispy, serving etiquette, and what makes a recipe Sicilian.

 

 

What is Sicilian bruschetta?

It can be as simple as olive oil, oregano, and pepper or as sophisticated as looking almost like a pizza. It doesn't really matter. But the fundamental basis is the way you cook the bread. 

As long as the olive oil is good, especially if it's new, that is a form of bruschetta. You can have hot bread, bread under the grill, or sometimes even bread on the barbecue. You get a lovely charcoal and smoky flavor.

People add oregano, for example, to give a little bit of a pizza flavor, along with garlic, tomatoes, and mozzarella. It's a bit like a pizza to an extent.

I also included some balsamic drizzle in my recipe, which is incredibly tasty. I did that because that's what I was used to doing here in Sicily. So I'm calling it a Sicilian bruschetta because that's how we used to eat in my house. It's generally an appetizer as well. It's a form of a starter. 

You can dip it with olives and sun-dried tomatoes on the side. And that is more cultural nowadays, of course. But in the past, it was very much about survival because it was something you could do very easily, and you could get by just by eating bread, olive oil, and tomatoes.

Is there a proper way to prepare the basil?

I think basil is okay as long as you don't cook it. Basil is an incredible herb. I always put it at the end of my dishes. If it's a hot ragù, for example, you will see me adding the basil at the end because it releases lots of flavors. I do that with most of my herbs.

 

It doesn't matter if you crush it, chop it with a knife, or do it with your hands. People say that if you chop with a knife, it loses its properties. I think it's rubbish. Personally, it's so minimal. The whole thing doesn't matter. The most important thing is to leave it to marinade because if you leave it for 20 minutes or 30 minutes to marinade with the olive oil, you will see that it will release its lovely flavors and taste incredible. That is an ingredient that is not in the original bruschetta. It is part of the evolution of bruschetta because basil obviously goes really well with most things, especially with tomatoes.

 

How do you ensure that your bread will be crispy rather than soggy when adding the toppings?

What I do is I put mine under the grill, and I do not put the mix until I'm ready to eat it. Generally, I tend to serve it hot. So if I am entertaining, for example, and I've got guests coming, I will do the bruschetta bread under the grill and then call everybody at the table. They sit at the table, and I'll get it out of the oven, and it's hot and crispy. Then, I'll have the little pot of my marinade in the middle. Then people can help themselves and then eat it straight away. And because between putting it on the bread and eating, it's pretty much a couple of minutes, it stays crispy. However, if you were to do it earlier and leave it on the bread, it would get soggy because the bread would absorb the olive oil. It will taste okay but not the same because you will lose the crunchiness. So, if you want to retain the crunchiness between spreading the marinade and eating it, just a few seconds.

What is the traditional serving of bruschetta?

There isn't one really. I think in Sicily, you have the bread in the middle of the table, and you help yourselves. That is generally how food is consumed in Sicily. It's more about the warmth and the family fun of fitting together rather than the etiquette of having to have it on a plate that becomes very un-Sicilian, so to say. I'm sure some people do that, but it's not how people generally eat in a household; in a family, you put the food in the middle of the table, and people help themselves.

 

What makes a recipe Sicilian?

What makes it really Sicilian is ingenuity and making it do with what you have. Sicilians are very good at using their imagination to make anything they have in the fridge. That is why Sicilians have come up with so many different recipes: because their imagination is really great, and from very little, they can make something very, very big. And the best thing is that Sicilian food is the simplest food. And that's why bruschetta is so great because it's very, very simple. You will find that even the most acclaimed pasta dishes in Sicily have only a few ingredients but are incredibly delicious. The same applies to a lot of pasta, for example. There are only a few ingredients, maybe three, four, or five. 

The reason is that the fewer ingredients you have, the more you can taste what the meal is about. And so if it's about the mozzarella, then you can taste the mozzarella. If it's about the tomato in a recipe, then you taste the tomato. 

The true Italian and Sicilian dish is simple cuisine where you can eat something, identify what is in it, and appreciate a blend of flavors without something being overpowering. A lot of Sicilian food also has garlic, but I will only put one little clove because I don't want it to be overpowering. 

And that is where Sicilians are good at making something work from very, very little.

 

Sicilian bruschetta recipe

 

 

Preserving Sicily's Bread-Making Tradition

 

 

 

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Director and food stylist Victoria Granof is well aware of America's love affair with Italy. It's something she shares, but one region of Italy particularly inspires her—and it's not the one at the tip of your tongue.

 

"I get so frustrated when people start talking about Tuscany," she says. "I mean, Tuscany is really nice—really nice. But Sicily is more my style; it's so different from any other part of Italy. People just think it's mafia, mafia, mafia. And it's so much more than that. I am on this mission to show people the Sicily that I love and that it's fabulous and different from the rest of Italy."

 

One of Victoria's obsessions is the aesthetic beauty of Sicily's famous sweets, which inspired her latest project, Sicily, My Sweet: Love Notes to an Island, with Recipes for Cakes, Cookies, Puddings, and Preserves.

Victoria and I recently sat down for a conversation where she shared her surprising Sicilian connection, her favorite recipes, what she learned working with photographer Irving Penn, the fascinating and sustainable way Sicilians make cannoli, and what she hopes book readers will take away. 

 

 

Tell us about your background and connection to Sicily.

My father's side of the family is northern Italian, and on my mother's side of the family were Sephardic Jews from Spain before the Spanish Inquisition.

We always thought we originated in Spain and landed in Turkey for the last 400 years. But the language, dialect, and food that we took with us, as well as a lot of the traditions, were not Turkish. 

When I went looking for my roots and to feel a connection, I went to Turkey, and it was like, "Oh, this is nice, but this is not home."

It wasn't until I read an article about Maria Grammatico, who owns a pastry shop in Erice. She said she was getting older and was afraid that none of the younger generation wanted to keep the tradition of Sicilian pastry alive because it was just dying off. All they wanted to do was move to a big city or out of Sicily and do something else.

I was really drawn to this because I was a pastry chef then, and I thought, okay, I'll go, and she can teach me. So that's what first brought me there, and I felt this really strong connection as soon as I went. 

Fast-forward to maybe five years ago, when all my family did our DNA and found out that we're Sicilian—57% Sicilian. Then I started really researching it. 

Spain wasn't Spain as we know it now at that time. It was the Spanish empire, which included a lot of South and Central America and from Naples down through Sicily. 

That's where we started from, who knows how long ago, but we were in the Sicily of Spain. And so there are still traces of the dialect in what we brought from 500 years ago, just like Sicilian Americans whose families came here a hundred years ago or 200 years ago with that same dialect, they will be speaking that same dialect for another 300 years. That's what they brought with them, and that's what gets passed down through the family. 

 

Is there a recipe in this book that has special personal significance?

I think everybody's grandmother makes biscotti Regina, the cookies with the sesame seeds. I remember my grandmother had a cookie tin of those on top of her refrigerator. Honestly, now that I think about it, it was kind of rusty inside. Those cookies probably took years off our lives!

When she died, I remember taking the cookies off the top of the refrigerator and thinking, "These are the last ones she's ever going to make with her hands."

I had one in my freezer for the longest time. Then we had a power outage last summer, and everything had to go. I forgot that the cookie was in there, so it went with it. It's very heartbreaking. 

 

You were a pastry chef and now a food stylist. How did that influence this book?

I had to go against all of my pastry-chef training, make it approachable and easy, and simplify it for home cooks. So, that part didn't come into it other than I love making pastries. 

The book's aesthetics were really important. In the end, two publishers were interested in it. (There were others, but these were the two that I was considering.) I went with Hardie Grant Publishing because they were willing and eager to have me not only design the book but also guide its aesthetics. 

I worked with a designer in Sydney, Australia, on the book design. When I saw her very first designs, I was like, "Oh my God. I love this so much."

Then they went through a couple of iterations, but just the colors! It was really important for me to have those colors in the book and on the book. It wasn't those earth-tony Tuscan things, so people would really understand that Sicily is different from the rest of Italy, period, and why it's so fabulously different. So the color had a lot to do with it—the graphics, the photographs, everything. 

 

Describe those colors.

I used pinks and greens and oranges and blues: the colors in the tile work and those on houses. There are pink houses in Sicily and raspberry-colored houses in the country. And I just love that color. So a lot of that; not millennial pink, but a lot of that kind of Sicilian country house/raspberry pink and the green of pistachios, I really leaned into that. And the orange of orange peel and yellow of lemons—just the colors in the ingredients, really. 

 

You worked with the late Irving Penn. How did he influence you?

I worked with him for 10 years. The funny thing was that I met the Vogue photo editor at a party, and it was a very short, cordial conversation. I handed him my card, and that was it. 

Then, a few months later, he called me and said, "Mr. Penn is looking for a collaborator. And I remember meeting you at the party, and you were very reserved and quiet, and that's what he likes. That's the vibe he likes, so I think it would be a good match."

So, for 10 years, I had to keep my mouth shut and not chat. It was a little bit torturous from that point of view. But you know what? I learned the economy of everything. There was nothing extra in anything. None of his output, none of his persona, none of his words, none of his anything were extra. Everything was essential. So he never had superfluous anything anywhere around him. 

I learned what is important in a picture and what is not necessary. I learned when to stop because several times, he would set up the shot, do a Polaroid, and take a picture. He would do a Polaroid first; if he liked it, he would take the picture, and then we would leave.

We'd be done before lunch. And it was never like, "Alright, let's do some variations," or "Let's do five more just in case," or "Let's see; do we think we have it?" No, after many years, he knew what it took to get a good picture and how to recognize it when he got it. And that was huge. 

It's a practice and a discipline. I'm so grateful for that because I've used it in all aspects of my life, including personal relationships. It's really important to know when to stop.

 

Which Sicilian desserts should everyone experience?:

Well, anybody who hasn't had a really good cannolo is… I mean, forget it!

I learned the last time I was in Sicily that they use bamboo as cannoli-shaping tubes. It was kind of a revelation for me. If you've ever done that with the metal tubes and fried the shells, the first thing it does is sink to the bottom. And then the bottom of the shell gets a little bit darker, which nobody notices, really. And then you have to keep turning them around and everything. With the bamboo, it floats. So not only does it just float and turn around by itself, but it's porous. So it cooks from the inside out and the outside in, and it allows air bubbles to come through and make the dough lighter. It's really an amazing thing. They turn black, but they are used over and over, and it's sustainable.

 

I'm also really obsessed with St. Agatha's breast cakes. I do them a couple of different ways, but the way I really love them is just with the pastry dough, the ricotta inside, and the icing on top. I love those symbolically—and just about anything with almonds and pistachios.

 

Most of my recipes are traditional, but some of them I developed that are just in the spirit of Sicily using Sicilian ingredients. I have shortbread cookie recipes, and one has sun-dried tomatoes and anise seeds. It's treating the tomatoes like dried fruit because that's what they are. Then, the other one has dried figs and oil-cured olives in it. It's really treating the olives and the tomatoes like the fruits they actually are. And it's really, really good. You could just keep the rolls of the dough in your freezer and then slice and bake it as you need it.

 

What do you hope readers take away?

I want them to appreciate this on so many levels. I want them to open their eyes and minds and appreciate Sicily for the multicultural, fabulously weird, and delicious place that it is.

In the book's introduction, I really talk about how if you go to other parts of Italy, they look like postcards. Everybody brings the same pictures back from Rome. There I am, throwing the coin in the Trevi Fountain. There I am in front of the Coliseum. They're all the same pictures. And the takeaway is the same. You can go to those places passively. You can just observe.

But what I love to say about Sicily is if you are there, you're in the game—not just enjoying it passively. You're not just looking at it. You're experiencing it. And some of it is funky, and there's garbage on the side of the road. There's some funky stuff there. But it's worth it because being there is such a heightened sensory experience. 

After so many centuries of being dominated and controlled by all kinds of different civilizations, people, empires, and all of that, it's just turned into this really strong, strange, wonderfully mixed-up, and beautiful place. It's not in spite of having that history; it's because of the history that it's so great.

 

>>Get your copy of Sicily, My Sweet here!<<

 

 

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My Sicilian grandmother may have been the cook of the household, but it was my grandfather who grew much of the produce she used in her dishes.

 

I can still remember sitting in the kitchen as Luciano Pavarotti's tenor voice filtered through the fragrant air. Nonna was stirring a pot of something wonderful on the stove when Nonno burst through the door with a tray of sun-dried tomatoes. He'd dried them himself by wrapping the tray in plastic and setting it out in the sun to do its magic. Who needed store-bought when doing it yourself was so easy and delicious? 

 

Food blogger Andrea Lagana of Hip Hip Gourmet agrees, but she "sun dries" her tomatoes in the oven before popping them into a dehydrator. 

 

"Doing it outside is nice and all, but there are lots of variables to consider (such as bugs, temperature, rain, etc.), so using a dehydrator is the no-fail preferred method in our family," she says.

 

Andrea took time out to share why she dries her own tomatoes, which tomatoes are best for drying, how to boost dried tomato flavor, and which recipes are best for sun-dried tomatoes. 

 

 

What is your background, and where is your Italian family from?

I'm a proud second-generation Italian. Both of my parents were born in Italy, both in Calabria, but in different towns. My dad is from Scilla, and my mom is from Montalto Uffugo.

Did your family sun-dry tomatoes?

My parents don't actually remember their families sun-drying tomatoes in Italy because they were so small when they left. However, my mom does have a few memories of her aunts and uncles sun-drying figs from their fresh backyard fig trees, so I'm sure it's not far-fetched to say that they did tomatoes, too.

 

When did you start sun-drying tomatoes, and why?

I started sun-drying tomatoes as soon as I started living on my own (about a decade or so ago!). It was always a staple in our house growing up and something I would help my parents make every year. I just knew I had to carry on the tradition not only because we've been making them for so long but also because they're so dang delicious, and I seriously can't live without them! So much so that I've actually vowed to make them every year for the rest of my life.

 

What is your preferred tomato-drying method?

I personally like to start my fresh halved (usually Roma or San Marzano) tomatoes in the oven on the lowest rack for a couple of hours. Then, I transfer them to a dehydrator to finish drying out. This process can be long and requires patience and persistence, as you have to keep going in every so often to check on them and take the ready ones out (they can be ready at different times). I like this method because it's efficient, reliable, and easy.

However, if I lived in Italy under the hot Italian sun, perhaps I would stick to the old-fashioned way of actually using the sun to dry them out completely. My mom used to start them outside in the sun in our backyard (instead of the oven), and then she'd move them to the dehydrator to finish.

How does the process differ from traditional sun-drying?

Traditional sun-drying includes salting the halved tomatoes to draw out excess moisture (which we don't do) and placing them in direct sunlight for several days with a protective covering like a screen or a cheesecloth to keep the insects away. The tomatoes will get rotated or flipped a few times during this process to ensure even drying. The process is generally longer than my family's method of using a dehydrator, as the sun must be shining in order for the tomatoes to dry out completely. 

 

What types of tomatoes are best suited for sun-drying?

We love using fresh and ripe Roma or San Marzano tomatoes for sun-drying. These beauties are the perfect size (go for the smaller ones) and have fewer seeds and more "meat" than other varieties. They also have a firm texture and lower water content, making them ideal for sun-drying. We also make fresh tomato sauce at the same time, and, as any Italian will tell you, Roma and/or San Marzano are basically the only options!

 

Can you list some common mistakes to avoid when making sun-dried tomatoes?

• Not using the right tomatoes: Remember, San Marzano or Roma. My Italian parents wouldn't approve of any other variety! 
• Overcrowding the dehydrator. The air needs room to circulate, and overcrowding the trays or overlapping the tomatoes will result in uneven and improperly dried tomatoes. For best results, place the tomatoes in a single and even layer.
• Taking the sun-dried tomatoes out too soon. You want to make sure they are dry but still bendy when you press them between your fingers. They shouldn't be moist, squishy, or hard at all. 
• Not tossing the ready ones in a splash of oil while waiting for the rest to finish. As I said, this process can take several days (or even weeks, depending on how many tomatoes you're drying). Tossing the ready ones in a bit of oil and keeping them in a container with a tight-fitting lid keeps them fresh and prevents mold before jarring.
• Not ensuring that all of the sun-dried tomatoes are completely submerged in oil at all times (after jarring). Make sure to always press them down beneath the oil with a fork after each use and/or topping up the oil as often as is needed.
• Not having patience. It's a virtue and so required in this process. But trust me, it's totally worth it and will pay off tenfold!
  
  

How can you enhance the flavor of tomatoes during the drying process?

You can definitely add salt to the halved tomatoes before drying. I'm sure you could also add some spices (e.g., garlic powder or Italian seasoning) if you wish. I haven't ever tried doing this before drying, but I'm sure it would be a good experiment.

Personally, my family likes to keep the tomatoes plain Jane during the drying process. We enhance the flavor after the tomatoes are completely dried out by adding loads of fresh chopped garlic, oregano, salt, and oil as we jar them.

 

What are the benefits of drying tomatoes at home versus buying them from a store?

Like anything homemade, they're just way better for so many reasons! First and foremost, they are much cheaper in the long run than store-bought varieties. I find that you can't find a good-tasting jar of sun-dried tomatoes for less than $15 these days (and I'm talkin' the smallest of small jars you could find). I also find that the oil used in most jarred varieties isn't an oil I consume on a regular basis, so I prefer making my own so I can control the exact ingredients and measurements that go into each jar.

And, of course, the real benefit of making sun-dried tomatoes at home is that I seriously cannot find a sun-dried tomato that is as delicious as the ones my family has been making for all of these years. Call me biased, but it's a fact!

What are some creative ways to incorporate sun-dried tomatoes into your cooking?

I love using sun-dried tomatoes in my cooking, so I feel like I can never have enough of them! Eating them straight out of the jar is, of course, also delicious. But here are some ways I like to use them:

• In pasta—why, of course! I wouldn't be Italian if I didn't suggest throwing some into the next pasta dish you make. My mom adds them to her pasta aglio e olio (a traditional simple olive oil and garlic pasta), which takes it to a whole other level.
• If you're feeling fancy (but not really, because all it takes is 10 minutes to make!), try my pesto rosso (aka my sun-dried tomato pesto), where the homemade sun-dried tomatoes are the true star! You can use this pesto on pasta, as a base for a pizza, or as a marinade for things like chicken or pork. It's even great on eggs.
• I love chopping sun-dried tomatoes and adding them to anything, from pizza (they're so good on pizza!) to meatballs (like my homemade sun-dried tomato turkey meatballs with spinach and goat cheese). 

One of my favorite things to do with sun-dried tomatoes is make Mediterranean-inspired dishes. They pair well with olives, capers, artichoke hearts, and spinach.

Here are two of my go-to recipes that use sun-dried tomatoes:

• Mediterranean Baked Halibut (you can use any white fish)
• Lightened Up Tuscan Chicken

 

 

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It's prickly pear season with so-called fichi d'India showing up in markets across Sicily. With a sweet taste reminiscent of watermelon, these spiky fruits can be found in the wild and on farms in the Mount Etna foothills. But what exactly is a prickly pear, and how do you eat them? Read on for a primer on this dangerously delicious fruit.

 

What Are Prickly Pears?

Native to Central Mexico, where it is called nopales, the prickly pear plant (Opuntia ficus-India) was first brought to Europe in the 16th century by Spanish explorers. Today, prickly pears grow on every continent except for Antarctica. In the United States, you can find Optunia cacti growing in the West and Southwest. You'll recognize them for their slender, beavertail-shaped pads, known as shovels, and their brilliant green, yellow, orange, red, and purple fruits (also called tuna). Both are edible.

 

In Sicily's markets, the preferred prickly pears are labeled as bastardoni. These fruits result from the plant's second flowering and are bigger and sweeter following an initial pruning in the spring. 

 

Sicilian Prickly Pear Recipes

Whether you're a fan of sweet or savory, you'll find a broad spectrum of prickly pear recipes bursting with Sicilian flavor. Try your hand at a traditional mostarda fichi d'India or gourmet Sicilian Etna prickly pear risotto (pictured below). Thirsty? Sip a glass of prickly pear juice. In the mood for a light, refreshing dessert? Prepare a palate-cleansing prickly pear granita. Sicily is also known for its prickly pear liqueur, which you can purchase at specialty stores or make your own.

 

Credit: Terra Orti - I Love Fruit & Veg from Europe

How to Pick Your Own Prickly Pears

If you're lucky enough to have access to prickly pear cacti, you may be wondering how to harvest them. Whatever you do, don't use your bare hands! Prickly pear fruit is covered in tiny spines called glochids, which can get in your skin. Ouch! 

 

Experts recommend wearing a long-sleeved shirt, long pants, and thick gloves. There are a variety of innovative methods, which I showcase below. Tools of the trade include small blow torches, tongs, and the traditional coppo, which you can purchase online or make yourself by cutting in half a 500-milliliter bottle and affixing it to a stick. 

 

 

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