Il Presepe vivente di Custonaci_Storia e Tradizioni (Italiano)

Situato su una collina nella provincia di Trapani, costa occidentale della Sicilia, Custonaci è un paesino noto a livello nazionale ed internazionale prevalentemente per la produzione del marmo, quello perlato per l’esattezza. Amato particolarmente negli Emirati Arabi, è così chiamato grazie ai riflessi determinati dalla presenza della calcite che rievocano il color madreperla caratteristico di molte conchiglie.

Tuttavia, non è solamente il marmo a rendere questo piccolo paese un posto speciale. Uno dei borghi di Custonaci, Scurati, ospita una grotta molto famosa nel mondo degli archeologi e paleontologi: la Grotta Mangiapane.

Si tratta di una grotta antichissima, molto grande, situata all’interno della Riserva di Monte Cofano. Lo studio e le ricerche condotti hanno messo in luce una storia risalente almeno al Paleolitico (da 36,000 a 10,000 anni fa). Anche se l’archeologia non dovesse far per noi, la Grotta Mangiapane rimane comunque un posto da visitare grazie all’insolita presenza di un villaggio costruito al suo interno e abitato fino a qualche decennio fa. L’ubicazione e la tipicità di questo piccolissimo villaggio hanno fatto sì che venisse anche scelto come set per uno degli episodi dell’ispettore Montalbano (Il ladro di merendine), seguitissima serie televisiva italiana tratta dai romanzi dello scrittore contemporaneo siciliano Andrea Camilleri.

Seppur abbandonato intorno agli inizi degli anni ’50, la popolazione locale ha mantenuto inalterato l’aspetto del piccolo villaggio, caratterizzato da casette molto piccole con tetti bassi. Alla loro vista non si può fare a meno di sentirsi immersi in una fiaba per bambini.

La magia si fa ancor più grande se si decide di visitare il posto durante le feste natalizie. Ecco che il piccolo villaggio si anima, prende vita e si trasforma in un presepe vivente. Artigiani provenienti da luoghi limitrofi, locali, volontari e comparse si danno appuntamento per riprodurre gli antichi e perduti mestieri, con l’ausilio degli strumenti di lavoro originali.

In un mondo che a volte sembra andare troppo di fretta, trasformando il consueto in desueto in un batter di ciglio, nella Grotta Mangiapane il tempo si è fermato all’inizio del XX secolo, almeno durante il Natale, in una piccola borgata i cui abitanti, incuranti di quanto accada nel resto del mondo, portano avanti mestieri tramandati di generazione in generazione.

Seguire il percorso tra le casette, ascoltare musiche e canti tradizionali, osservare l’arte degli artigiani inevitabilmente ci riporta ai racconti dei nonni, a quelle storie imparate a scuola e apparantemente tanto distanti da noi.

All’interno del Presepe di Custonaci, il tempo cede il posto all’eterno: l’odore del pane appena sfornato, della ricotta ancora calda, i rumori degli utensili nelle mani di uomini e donne avvolti in abiti storici - i cui volti per magia sembrano assumere connotati antichi - realizzano un’esperienza che vale la pena vivere. Così, in pieno clima natalizio e dopo aver inebriato il nostro spirito di quelle musiche, profumi e colori, arrivare alla grotta in cui la Sacra Famiglia posa silente diventa quasi un tappa obbligatoria non solo fisica, ma anche spirituale.

A circa trent’anni dalla nascita di questo appuntamento, considerato il crescente interesse etno-antropologico della ricorrenza, la Regione Sicilia ha inserito il Presepe Vivente di Custonaci nella lista delle Eredità immateriali, affinché ne venga preservato il valore di patrimonio storico e culturale.

Buongiorno_random shot for a good day

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8DNwaojAJ18

Italian Recorded Vote_Mr Senator & Il Ritorno di Cagliostro

Somebody said today was an important day. For some reason my brain keeps thinking today is just one of those days.
I think of Shakespeare and his Much Ado About Nothing, but - to be honest! - I think of its Italian translation Molto rumore per nulla. It makes more sense to me.

I woke up early and one of the first things we mentioned was the recorded vote that is going to take place very soon today in Italy. Alessandro said  something like it was unbelievable there was need for a vote to establish that a senator, officially guilty, should leave the senate. He had a good point. People compare Mr Senator to Jesus Christ because of this vote, forgetting the reason why they are about to vote!

I don't know why, but the philosopher who usually lives in me waiting for a moment of glory this morning was particularly sleepy. It happened then that only a memory popped up in my mind so, followed by a smile and a quick research on you tube, we ended up laughing while watching a scene of "Il ritorno di Cagliostro" by Cipri and Maresco.

I was thinking in dialect! We don't need a recorded vote, we just need Cipri and Maresco!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NBQT86LZ-s0

...Quiet morning...Quid Pro Quo

 

 

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMdddre-WIA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Italian Siesta_

I think I am cute and smart in a balanced measure and because of that  I totally agree with those who state that to understand a woman's brain, you need a PhD in Psychology.

I started noticing that I am that type of person who, on certain topics, doesn't like to hear the truth.

-Oh, I have lots of wrinkles!
-No, you don't! You are just thirty-five and those you have are fine.
- No, I don't have wrinkles. I just had a bad night. I need to rest!

>>>

-  I think I have some cellulite now! Oh my God, that is awful!
-  It is not cellulite, Claudia. Let me see, where is it?
- What?
- Cellulite?
- No, I just need to do some sport! I don't have cellulite!

>>>

- Do I buy the blue or black Moleskine?
-Why don't you buy the black? You have already the blue one.
-Isn't it so cute? The yellow one?
-So, pick it!
-Ok. Got it. Blue! It matches with my eyes...
- Claudia, your eyes are brown.
-I know. I didn't say they are the same. I said it matched! Why are you so complicated!

For the same reason, I should stop asking questions like: can you tell me something that makes you think of Italians?
As soon as I pronounce that question, I start shaking. I always wonder why those words come out from my mouth with that nice, mellow Italian accent. I feel already sorry for the poor student I am asking to. They are confident, they feel at ease reassured by my smiles and my sentences not too fast, not too slow...they don't know there is only one word I really cannot stand: SIESTA!

The word SIESTA is like a tamper switch to me, the one used in the security system industry to prevent somebody can destroy your alarm system even before the alarm is detected. It bothers me so much that I can actually read my students' lips. As soon as they start with that type of smile which originates the consonant S, I already know. (Smile - Sssss -iesta)

If I asked my Italian friends what the word "siesta" reminds them, I am sure most of them would say Speedy Gonzales. Unless they already migrated to another country, they would never think they are being associated to that hissing word.

Do you remember Speedy? He was not an Italian mouse. He was Mexican! He was wearing a sombrero, not a coppola cap! His friends were playing guitars, not mandolins!

Apparently, it sounds like an Italian, who takes everything easy, after a long lunch doesn't go to work anymore. He goes for a siesta. An Italian day finishes at 2 pm and for that same reason we don't say good afternoon, but we immediately switch from Buongiorno to Buonasera. In the afternoon we are just sleeping!

I know my students, my Canadian friends who say that, don't mean anything bad. And, if I think about it, it is actually interesting to discover how some people can see us.
It doesn't matter if I try to explain that not everybody can have a nap in the afternoon and that, possibly, the people they met were unemployed (struggling with other issues, indeed), retired or 2 years old!
Or even that, when you wake up after a siesta, you have to go back to work where you stay until the end of the day!

Before I tried a couple of times to explain how it worked. Now I smile, I start singing in my mind "Speedy Gonzalez"

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B3vo_R1g7VE

and, while rubbing my cellulite lotion, I think how to make a post for my blog out of this weird thought!

Good Morning...

 

 

 

Getting ready for my Italian class...in the body and soul!

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AfNZfy_zy54

Morning Thoughts____All about some accents and Achilles' heel

-"Why did you move to Canada?"

- How do you like here?

-How comes that you know English?

Three questions and a complex opinion.

I often notice people are astonished when, after perceiving my accent, they found out they can speak normally to me, without slowing down because I can actually understand what they are saying .
I think that a change in the intonation of our voice happens naturally as soon as we realize the person we are talking to comes from a different country.

We scream, we pronounce sentences slower and sometimes we stop conjugating a verb. It sounds like, WHEN YOU BUS WANT, TICKET YOU PAY MONEY!

So basically we alter the structure of a sentence, we select a bunch of important words and we scream, as if screaming out our words could make them go deeper in the other person's auricle.
Why are human beings so awkward sometimes?

- I moved to Canada because we decided it was a nice place to live in, especially for the kids.

- I see. There is no job in Italy, correct?

- (Thinking) I think, I said something different! - (Speaking) Yes, there is a big economic crisis going on right now. But, we moved because we thought it was a good idea. We were working!

- I like Canada. I love when it snows! Cold weather makes me feel alive!

-Yeahhh, I know it is hard the winter here. That is why we often go to Florida. It's ok, don't worry. Once you adjust, you will be fine.

- (Thinking) I think I said I loved cold weather. Cold=Freddo; Caldo=Hot. Did I say "caldo" or "cold"? - (Speaking) I am sure I will be fine!

- I can hear an accent!

-(Thinking) Oh, Good for you! I am glad you can hear perfectly! I can actually hear your accent too! - (Speaking) Yes, You hear an Italian accent. I come from Italy, Sicily. Where do you come from?

-How comes you learnt English in just 3 years?

- (Thinking) Why did you decide I didn't know English before? I COME FROM ITALY, NOT JUPITER! (Speaking) Yeahhhhh, I studied it.

-It's ok, your accent is cute!

- (Did I say it was not ok?)

When you move, this is part of the offer. When you first arrive and you hear you have an accent, for a few seconds, you feel as if you were supposed to justify yourself. As if you were supposed to apologize for that. Or that, if you have an accent, it means you don't know how to speak properly. It suffices a change in the facial expression of the person we are talking to, an eyebrow that moves down against the other one that goes up and we start shaking. One thousands questions pop up in our brain making us wondering what word did we pronounced wrong. We don't realize that, maybe, the other was just thinking about our thoughts. Maybe, one of your beautiful words, made the other person have a sort of epiphany. Why not?

I think this is because we are already going through so many drastic changes that finally we are too tired to be logical.

After a while, little by little, you start feeling part of the system. You start hearing accents too, you learn how to distinguish accents and, the best part, you start hearing the accents of Canadians too. They just don't know they have one! It is not a survival battle anymore, we just realize that was curiosity. "Being curious" not necessarily means "bad intentions".

We should do ourselves a favor being nicer to ourselves!


On the other hand, being in a beautiful, welcoming country doesn't mean the population consists of beautiful people only. I start feeling some people need to think you are suffering, you are in pain, you don't like what they don't, and it is not acceptable the idea you are actually going in a different direction. Initially, this type of behaviour was bothering me a lot. I thought it was a sort of injustice. Then, I realized we all have our own Achilles' heel.  And, that's why I started keeping going when somebody is clearly not listening to my words.

Why should my Italian accent be the one that makes them realize there is no light at the end of that tunnel?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Le-3MIBxQTw

Call Center_Noon Thoughts

Now I know what it is!

Our lives are full of compromises. We like it or not, this is what it is. Now, obviously, there are different types of compromises. Some of them should never be accepted, some others are just necessary.

When you move to a different country, some of those compromises pop up like mushrooms after a prolonged rain. I should considered myself lucky, being part of that generation of immigrants who can count on the existence of technology. This helps a lot when one of the compromises you have to accept is that, if you want/need to move, you cannot have the entire family with you.

We are lucky now because we have laptops, smartphones, what’s up, Skype, etc…

However, sometimes, because of my own nature I wonder if that is true. In another post I mentioned I hate any type of dependency. Technology is included, of course!

Some days, I have the impression my house is like a call center, a continuous noise, hubbub, all around the house. Instead of four people, we suddenly are ten. Like gremlins (do you remember?), faces are popping up everywhere. I turn around still looking for my coffee and I hear people chatting, playing, crying, laughing, and arguing about different things…but, NOBODY is physically there. Only a laptop, a tablet, a screen that thanks to the magic of technology turned into a huge face. You can actually play with that face. You can make it smaller, put it in a corner, and make it disappear. The voice is still there though!

 Don’t take me wrong, please! It is that this is who I am. Sometimes, especially when something is a little bit sad, my brain tends to turn the situation in a sort of commix. A funeral, for example! I was almost dying because of my laughs at my grandpa’s funeral. Is that funny? Not at all! My brain seems to refuse to behave!

Some days I think if you were in the same city, you wouldn’t spend so much time talking to that person. Not because of lack of love, but because I think this is part of the human nature to fear the distance. It is understandable, of course. Psychologically speaking you are aware that you cannot hug, kiss, and touch that person if you decide you want to.

 

Having said that, I remember one day I decided I didn’t want to use Skype. I was just tired. I needed to rest for one day only. I wanted to hear from my family, but not in that moment. Skype started ringing…I ignored it. What’s up started whistling the way an annoying guy would do with a beautiful girl – Hey, do you Skype today?, Are u busy?, Are you sleeping? – and you pretend to ignore it. Silence, finally!

Your house phone rings.

-          Hallo?

-          …pause…

-          Hallo?

-          (A voice as far as Mars can be) Hey! Were you sleeping? Are you going out? Can we meet today? In five minutes?

-          Suuuuureeeeeeee

It was my mom calling from Skype to my house phone because - God bless him! -  a genius invented an option that gives you the ability to call even a cell phone!

I love you Mom! I love my mom! I love all those little faces popping up from my laptop...not constantly, though! So, please nobody be offended!

Phase 3_Landscape and Happiness

Today it is just a morning thought I want to share.

 

 

 

A new phase in my immigration process has started. When I first arrived, I had often to go beyond my shyness or uncertainty when I was expected to do important things: talk to strangers remembering to smile, go to offices to have some documents issued, meet teachers, trainers, students, etc…

In this process, at least for me, a big impact was represented by the land itself. The discovery of the territory even for basic things (community center, school, Wall-Mart, etc…) was psychologically speaking challenging for me. I did it, of course, because my sense of self-discipline usually surpasses my fears.

Three years and a half later, heading north with my car, I suddenly realized that for the very first time I was just excited of going somewhere I didn’t know. With my printed Google map itinerary beside me, the music on, a grey sky and some air chilly enough to preannounce the approach of cold season, it was nothing less than pure genuine happiness!

 

The interesting fact is that you don’ t realize that little by little you are reaching that point where something that makes you feel uncertain, apparently out of the blue, becomes easy, natural, nice and actually exciting. This is part of the process as well and it’s something I like to share with any new comer I meet here. Be confident! Amazing results are right behind a corner waiting for you. It is just a matter to find the corner first, though!

 

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T1tOHz2l0qE

 

 

 

A Santuzza from Palermo to Woodbridge (English)

Everything started in Palermo, on Mount Pellegrino, known all over Europe thanks to J.W Goethe who, in his Italian Journey, described it as: «a massive rock, wider than tall […] its beautiful shape exceeds any possible description […] ».

In the hearts of the people in Palermo, Mount Pellegrino is more simply the dwelling of the Patron Saint of the city.

I was about eight years old when, at the sunrise of a warm September morning, my mother woke me up to experience that any person in Palermo would try at least once in his/her life: l’acchianata (the ascent) to Saint Rosalia’s place. The ascent to the sanctuary on foot, on bare feet, on one’s knees, or walking with children on shoulders.

 At the foot of the mountain that overlooks Palermo, where an ancient path paved with square stones begins, groups of people were standing to start the pilgrimage to give thanks or look for the grace of their beloved and powerful Santuzza, Rosalia. Dawn was, and certainly still is, the best time of the day to start the pilgrimage, considering that in the beginning of September the temperature in Sicily can be still sweltering. That rise, at the age of eight, indelibly marked my life as a Palermo native.  

It is not a matter of faith any longer. It is just the desire to give voice to your soul. As demonstration of this, the sanctuary and Saint Rosalia are now considered by the Tamil communities in Palermo, both the catholic and Hindu ones, a place where they can take care of their spirituality.

The rise is challenging and the best way to tackle it is to be focused on your spirit’s thoughts. L’acchianata in my life has become a symbol for sharing. It is not the destination important, but the journey. Waiting for me at the peak, the warmth of a friendly and smiling face that in my mind always recalled a mother's smile, who with her eyes and a barely perceivable smile, tells her child: “Well done!”

 

But what does Santa Rosalia have to do with Toronto? This would be a question to ask Mr Ferrante, native of Palermo like myself, migrated to Canada like myself, who, for grace received, decided to pay homage to his beloved Santuzza organizing, at his own expenses, the Festino of Santa Rosalia, in Woodbridge!

 The discovery for my part of the perfect reproduction of the Saint’s statue in Toronto was purely incidental during one of my visits to the city. Back then my idea for a possible migration to Canada was still far off. Of course, I was astonished and amazed by Mr. Ferrante and by how the love for our roots together with deep devotion and gratitude feelings could drive us to such a big display of affection.

A Palermo native prays to the Santuzza all year long, although he celebrates her officially only twice a year. The first one with the acchianata in September; the second one, in July. It is said that the great Fest in July were organized back in 1624 after many people survived to a terrible plague which afflicted the city.

Should you be in Palermo on the 14th and 15th of July, I would recommend you the so called Festino di Santa Rosalia. To have an idea of how deep and entrenched is this devotion in the natives, it is sufficient to think that last year the 389^th edition of the event took place. For about four-hundred years so, the old city center of Palermo, once a year, has been turned into a huge open air theatre.

U’ Fistinu (Il Festino, Big Fest), in the Palermo natives’ expectation as well as the one of any tourists who crowd the streets of the old city, has to rock, move, results in an explosion of joy, lights, music, colors and, of course, food and beverages. A real Palermo native would say: “Santu veni, festa fai!” (Saint who comes, it’s essential to celebrate). From a culinary point of view, this turns into a triumph of street food (and not only), where different things will be served, such as: càlia e simenza (roasted chick peas and salted pumpkin seeds), ‘I babbaluci (snails sautéed with garlic and parsil), u’ mulune (water melon), pani chi paneddi e cazzilli (bun with a square mad out fried chick peas flour and water, and deep fried potato croquettes), sfinciuni (lo sfincione, a sort of soft pizza garnished with loads of onion), and many other things.

Won’t it be possible to organize a trip to Sicily next July? Never mind, worst comes to worst there is always Woodbridge!




Suggested link: http://festinodisantarosalia.it/389/

 

Una Santuzza da Palermo a Woodbridge (ITALIANO)

Tutto ha origine a Palermo, su Monte Pellegrino reso famoso nel resto d’Europa da J.W. Goethe il quale, nel suo Viaggio in Italia,  lo descrisse come: «grande massa di roccia, più largo che alto […] la sua bella forma è al di sopra di ogni descrizione […]».

Nel cuore dei palermitani, tuttavia, Monte Pellegrino è più semplicemente la dimora della Santa patrona della città.

Avevo circa otto anni quando all’alba di una mattina di settembre venni svegliata da mia madre per fare quell’esperienza che ogni palermitano vivrà almeno una volta nella vita: l’acchianata a Santa Rosalia: la salita a piedi, scalzi, in ginocchio, o con bimbi sulle spalle al santuario.

Alle falde della montagna che sovrasta Palermo, laddove un antico viottolo lastricato di pietre quadrate comincia, gruppi di persone si erano date appuntamento per rendere o chiedere grazie alla loro amata e potente Santuzza, Rosalia. L’alba era, e certamente rimane, il momento migliore della giornata per affrontare il pellegrinaggio, considerato che agli inizi di settembre il caldo in Sicilia può essere ancora afoso. Quella salita, sin dall’età di otto anni, segnò indelebilmente la mia vita da palermitana.

Non è più una questione di credo o meno. Si tratta semplicemente di voler dar voce al proprio spirito. A dimostrazione di ciò, il fatto che nel santuario e in Santa Rosalia le comunità Tamil di Palermo, sia cristiana che induista,  abbiano trovato qualcosa che gli consenta di prendersi cura della propria spiritualità.

La salita è impegnativa e un buon modo per affrontarla è quello di concentrarsi sui pensieri dell’anima. L’acchianata per me è divenuta simbolo di condivisione. Non è  la meta importante, ma il viaggio. Ad attendermi, tuttavia, il calore di un volto amico, sorridente che nella mia mente ha sempre rievocato quello tipico di una mamma, che con gli occhi e un sorriso appena accennato dice al figlio: “Ben fatto!”

 

Ma cosa c’entra Santa Rosalia con Toronto? Questo bisognerebbe chiederlo al sig. Ferrante, palermitano come me, emigrato in Canada come me, il quale a seguito di una grazia ricevuta ha deciso di rendere omaggio alla sua amata Santuzza organizzando a proprie spese il Festino di Santa Rosalia, a Woodbridge!

 La scoperta della riproduzione perfetta della Santa a Toronto è stata del tutto casuale in occasione di una mia vacanza in Canada, quando ancora era lontanissima l’idea di una possibile emigrazione. Rimasi ovviamente colpita e affascinata dalla figura del signor Ferrante e da quanto l’amore per le proprie origini e una profonda devozione e gratitudine possano spingerci a grandi manifestazioni.

Il palermitano, la Santuzza, la prega tutto l’anno ma la festeggia in modo ufficiale ben due volte. La prima volta con l’acchianata di settembre; la seconda volta in luglio. I grandi festeggiamenti di luglio, si dice, furono organizzati a seguito del sopravvivere di molti palermitani a una peste abbattutasi sulla città nel lontano 1624.

 Se doveste trovarvi in Sicilia, a Palermo, il 14 e 15 luglio vi segnalo certamente il cosiddetto Festino di Santa Rosalia.  Per dare un’idea di quanto profonda e radicata sia questa devozione nei palermitani, basti pensare al fatto che lo scorso luglio si è tenuta la trecentottantanovesima edizione dell’evento. Da quasi quattrocento anni dunque, il centro storico di Palermo, una volta l’anno, si trasforma in un affollatissimo teatro all’aperto.

U’ Fistinu (Il Festino, grande festa), nell’aspettativa dei palermitani e dei numerosi turisti che in quei giorni affollano le vie del centro storico, deve stravolgere, commuovere, risultare in un tripudio di gioia, luci, musica,  colori. Essendo in Sicilia, ovviamente,  cibo e bevande rappresentano ingredient fondamentali per la riuscita dei festeggiamenti. In dialetto si dice: “Santu veni, festa fai!” (santo che arriva, bisogna festeggiare).  Da un punto di vista culinario tutto ciò si trasforma in un tripudio di cibo da strada (e non solo), nel quale si alterneranno, càlia e simenza (ceci abbrustoliti e semi di zucca salati), ‘I babbaluci (le lumache sbollentate, servite con olio, aglio, pepe e sale), u’ mulune (l’anguria), pani chi paneddi e cazzilli (pane con panelle e crocchette) e sfinciuni (lo sfincione, pizza dall'impasto soffice e guarnita con moltissima cipolla).

Non sarà possibile organizzare un viaggio in Sicilia il prossimo luglio? Poco importa, male che vada c’è sempre Woodbridge!

 

 

It's a matter of...food!

 

Being an Italian myself, I am often being associated to food (il cibo). I notice among the people I meet there is the tendency to consider an Italian as a person who: si gode la vita , grida and gesticola, for some unexplainable reason keeps voting Berlusconi, wear a scarf even in Summer and, of course, an Italian is a person who lives for food, and not thanks to it.
 Let's put it in this way, we should always try to escape from any type of generalisation or stereotypes.


Are we Italians really so obsessed  with food? My first answer is NO. My second answer is...Of course we are!!!!
Even if we were not, we wouldn't like to disappoint who really believes that.
Because, we care! :-)
I love to see the surprise in the eyes of my interlocutors when I state that I don't like pasta and not even gelato. For goodness sake! Please, don't say "gelaDo" and "spagheDi" with that "D"! Would you like to hear that one of the symbol of Toronto is the CN Dower? Or, that the Skydome should now be called SkyTome? "D" is "D" and 'T" is "T". They're cousins, not twins!
My apologies for this drift. It is part of my personality to get excited when I want to prove my point.
Do I like pasta? Yes, I do. Do I feel the need for pasta every day, at least once a day which means 365 times a year? No, I definitively don't.
To be honest with you, I am not sure if that depends on the fact that I hate any type of dependence or addiction. It is already hard for me to accept that my life depends on oxygen and maybe this is one of the reason why I am claustrophobic! :-)
The types of pasta I love mainly derive from ancient regional traditions, typical from the poor class of the society and later lifted up to a higher rank.
Italian cooking, in my opinion (and not only), cannot be considered as part of a single, uniform tradition. Because of the history of Italy itself, its typicalness depends mainly on the coexistence of regional traditions.
One of my favourite type of pasta is called Pasta ca muddica atturrata (Pasta with toasted breadcrumbs). In Sicily, originally, breadcrumbs was used instead of cheese for economic reasons. Now, it is often one of the main ingredients for many recipes. Its name is in Sicilian and if I tried to translate it into Italian, I can guarantee you it would lose right away even its wonderful taste.
Are you not a chef? Never mind! This is one of the best and fastest pasta ever (Spaghetti with Ketchup don't count!).

La ricetta

We need Muddica atturrata first

Gr. 200 di pangrattato, 2 acciughe dissalate e diliscate, olio extravergine di oliva, sale, zucchero, pepe.
Put 4 tablespoon of olive oil in a pan and slowly let the anchovies melting. Then, add your breadcrumbs and, mixing it continuously, let it roast paying attention it doesn't get burnt. When it reaches a golden colour, remove from the fire, add a teaspoon of sugar, just a little bit of salt and black pepper. Let it cool down.

Now let's concentrate on the actual pasta...

Gr. 400 di spaghetti o linguine, 2 spicchi d’aglio, gr.200 di muddica atturrata, olio extravergine di oliva, sale, pepe, prezzemolo tritato.

Place 2 crushed cloves of garlic into a pan with half of a glass of olive oil and let it fry over low heat until the colour turns to gold.
In boiling and salted water cook your past. Within the first 2 minutes, stir to keep the pasta from sticking.  Let it cook until it is al dente. Once ready, drain it and mix with the oil and garlic. Finally, add your muddica atturrata and, if you like it (I don't), some parsley.

Buon appetito!

Un espresso, per favore! Immigration and communication

You should never start a sentence with the word “no”, unless you really mean that! That is one of the first rules I learnt in Canada and, to be really honest, I am still working on it!

In front of something she doesn't like, an hypothetical exactly identical to me woman named Claudia would say something like, "No, I don't like it at all. I would say it is really awful and we should do something different. The reason why I don't like it is because I think it would be nicer...bla...bla"

This is totally different from what a completely integrated woman whose name is also Claudia, what a coincidence!!!!, would say. The integrated one would definitely say something like, "This is very interesting and noticeable. I would say actually fantastic! Definitively similar to what I was looking for...Would you be so nice to show me some other alternatives? Something just a little bit different that maybe would have a....bla, bla..."

As you can see the things in common between the 2 scenarios are only the 2 "bla, bla..."

Communication and Immigration is another essential topic to deal with. You move to another country with your 20, 30, 40 years of life experience somewhere. You are quite sure about the basic rules of communication because you haven't read yet that if in Italy when you speak to someone to make eye contact is fundament in a conversation, if you are in Japan you shouldn't because that is considered a sign of not politeness. Or, for example, you are almost sure that if you are asked with the question, “How are you?” the person who is asking you, really wants to know it.

Day after day, observing people’s reactions, you start learning interesting things and promptly all the things made sense until one second before stop making sense, or at least stop to be so certain. I am not saying that in a bad or good way. I am just saying that because it happened to me a couple of times. Sometimes my way of thinking needed to be reviewed, some others looked even nicer than before.

When I started going out, I remember I was quite impressed by the fact that people working in stores, restaurants, anywhere,  were asking, “Hi! How are you?”  I didn’t expect that! The first times, I remember I stopped at the question coming from a smiling face and, trying to be as much Canadian as possible,  I  answered, “Hi! I am well thanks! And how are youuuuu?”

The odd change on my interlocutor face made me think there was something wrong. Maybe, it was just my accent, wasn’t it?  After a while I did realise that the question “how are you?” doesn’t require an answer. This is not bad and not good. This is just different. If you ask an Italian how he/she is doing (“Ciao, come stai?”), be ready my friend to listen to a long story. You will know how  the night before was compared to the previous one, something about the dinner and then about an amazing pizzeria where you can eat an astonishing Margherita. And on that topic, you will receive a complete report about how many types of Pizza you can find. Finally, after at least ten minutes of soliloquy your turn will come. You'd better try to do your best and avoid to say just "not too bad"!

After one month I realised all that and now I laugh while driving my car I remember some of those faces.

Tim Horton is also part of this topic. My husband's and my first 200 coffees at Tim Horton were everything except what we were expecting to receive.

"Hi, how are you? What would you like to order?"

"A coffee, please"

"What size? Small, Medium,Largeextralarge?" (the speed was accelerating dangerously)

"Yes...small?"

"Milkorcream?"

"Excuse me?"

"milkorcream, do you want milkorcream?

"Yes...milk?" (you start being scared...)

"Sugar?Wouldyoulikesoemthingonyourcoffee...chocolatecreamorsomehtingthatmaybeIamnot

sayingbutyouknowwehave?"

At this point we both were completely lost, overwhelmed by a feeling of frustration. Actually, something between frustration and incredulity.

I remember a couple of times I was heading back to my car staring to a huge cup of coffee that tasted like vanilla and was loaded with cream, too sweet. Or another day when my original request was an "ice cup" and I ended up with a cup with some watery coffee and some floating ice cubes. To not mention the collection of trays in our car until we were able to recognise the word "tray" and became confident enough to say "NO, THANK YOU!"

See how different things can be?

If you ask an Italian how he/she is doing, you will get a novel. On the other hand, if you go to Italy and you ask for a coffee, you just get an espresso!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Immigration & Technology_From Vulcania to Alitalia

My first memory of the word "immigration" takes me back in time, at the age of six and, in an awkward way, it is strictly connected to the word Cannella (Cinnamon).  I remember the smell of that spice trespassing a small crowd of people surrounding a big suitcase overflowing with candies and sparkling useless, but attractive things. My grandma had just arrived from her trip to a far Country called America, to  a place she named Broccolin (Brooklyn) where one of her brothers had moved a while before without telling anybody. A place where apparently it was already possible to buy some chewing gum with that lovely, spicy taste. It had been very hard for her to find him and I remember adults talking about specialised agencies helping people to find relatives all over the world. Internet, Google and Skype were just utopias even though I am not that old... those were immigrants of the late 50s, early 60s.
That generation came back to my life once again in 2008 when my husband's family,  and so I, had to bid  farewell to Nonna Titti. When a member of the family passes away  there is always a sad moment when other people's memories disclose into your hands trying to find a new place to live in. This is Heritage.

Handling those memories needs a special care because it is easy to be trapped in an odd perception that makes you feel guilty of profanation. Think about it. When we are alive some people think they know us very well (I am thinking of friends and families). So do we about them! To some other strangers or simply acquaintances we are just funny, odious, arrogant, happy and so on. Is that possible?
When we die, suddenly, our lives become like an open secret diary with the only exception that we cannot argue anymore and people cannot use our own words against us. Unless they are reading our will. :-)  Probably, this is the reason why I have a blog now, instead of a personal diary. I prefer to share my thoughts now even if some of them are not popular, amazing, conventional or just acceptable.
 Nonna Titti's farewell brought me to Canada. Among amazing yellowish pictures portraying a Palermo in black and white, there were some taken at the Harbour. A big ship in the background, Vulcania, a family picture, tears and handkerchief, love and pain for an island to leave and the uncertainty of a future that had to be better to give a sense to that farewell.
We spent nights watching those pictures and more than one time I was just crying overwhelmed with the utmost respect to those people I didn't know. There were both sorrow and pride in my heart.
In those pictures that Nonna Titti saved year after year, there was the story of an Immigration and page after page the growth of a family with wedding, new babies, their new lives, their dialect, their pride...

Finally, it was 2010. It was March 2010 and another family was taking some historical pictures. This time everything was happening at the airport. The Vulcania gave way to a plane and a mother with her 4 years old son and 14 month old daughter was being hugged by friends, crying brothers and sisters, fathers. I turned my back holding as much as I could Maia's stroller. Alessandro was waiting for us in Canada. I felt guilty for one long second. I was taking away my kids from the love of their family and the paradox was that I was doing that to guarantee them something more. It's hard to explain. Suddenly, I saw my mother's green eyes. Her strength, her discipline, her courage. Her words saying: "I am your mother and to let you go is one of the hardest thing I am asked to accept. If I were you, I would do exactly the same thing. You are doing the right thing! Remember, the RIGHT THING!"

Thank God, immigration is now different. We have Skype, What's up, Picasa, etc...Our parents travel. They come here to visit us and like a very Italian would do, they bring us food. I know it is not to feed us. That is Heritage, a treasure to pass to my kids without waiting for the last farewell, but taking advantage of what technology has donated to a 2010 Italian immigrant family to Canada.

  

Immigration, languages & kids

When you consciously decide to migrate to another Country and you are not really in a hurry, a couple of things should be considered especially if you have kids.

Language is one of the first. This sounds pretty obvious, I know. The truth is that obvious things can often surprise me. In 1950 migration from Italy to Canada, Argentina or US was quite different. Italy was a poor Country (now it is going there again, unfortunately) devastated by the Second World War. In the country yards people were literally starving and one of the best solution was to leave, to go where future was offering alternatives, opportunities, work and bread. Back then many people didn’t have many things. No properties, no money, no luggage, no Skype, no English or Spanish but a big, humongous, unbelievable courage. I do believe that circumstances and the need to survive can make people brave and able to go beyond their own expectations.

My generation is probably less brave compared to that although, in any case, to leave your certainties, family, friends and things you have been always known requires a good amount of courage. This occasionally can turn into something as pathetic as extremely hilarious.

We considered different options other than Canada. We started thinking to move from one city to another in Sicily (as if this could make a difference!), then from the south to the north of Italy, then from Italy to somewhere in Europe. When considering Europe, we thought that Germany would have been nice. Germany is actually nice but it was not meant to be. In a moment of rare wisdom I imagined myself and Alessandro dealing with 2 teenagers, Lorenzo and Maia, in need of help to complete their homework. We couldn’t have offered them all our potentials because of the huge barrier of language. I also remember myself trying to motivate my concerns starting from a matter of fact: generations have always been divided by an unquestionable ideological/behavioural gap. We were about to leave what we knew with the additional challenges given by a linguistic barrier. So, I proposed to look for a Spanish or English speaking destination considering we both were able to make us understandable when speaking them! Canada was our wisest choice, and the consideration of the potential issues related to the new language our second wisest one!

When we arrived here Maia was 14 months old. One of the nicest neighbours I have ever met, the second day after my arrival, proposed me and Maia to join her and her toddler in a Moms and Tots program at the library. Still dealing with the jet leg, I was seating among Canadian moms dealing with Canadian tots eating fishes and cheerios (different snacks from Italian kids) and singing songs I didn’t know. I remember I was finally extremely happy when the lady started singing “Old McDonald had a farm”. Finally I knew one! Only one thing needed to be change: instead of saying Nella Vecchia Fattoria, I needed to start talking about that old guy McDonald!

“Old McDonald had a faaaarmmmmm, ia ia yoooooo”, Maia was clapping with me...

“and in that farm he had a cowwwwwww, ia ia yooooo”, still clapping and smile...

“and a moo moo here, and a moo moo there...”, OK this was a little bit different, but manageable.

So, going ahead, there was a sheep that was saying Baaaahhhh versus the Italian Beeeeeeee; a rooster that was doing a cock-a-doodle-doo versus an Italian chicchirichì; a horse that was doing neigh, against an Italian ihhhhhhhh and so on until Maia started looking at me a little bit concerned and I started fearing that I had no hope to survive to that song. I was proud of my song though.

So, I decided to keep going until we arrived at the last animal: the piglet. What happened at that point will be carved in my heart and soul forever. I won’t forget for the rest of my life the deepness of the silence in the big, colourful room when against a Canadian oink, oink, my nose produced  one of the worst sound I have ever heard. In Italian it is written grunf, grunf but no doubt that word doesn’t reflect the sound at all! It is a sound that doesn’t come from the mouth, but from somewhere between the mouth and the nose...somewhere exactly in between!

Silence...Silence...Silence...In a slow motion, Maia looked at me and crawled away!

Three years have passed and our kids can now speak English fluently and without any Italian accent. We keep speaking Italian home (that is mandatory!) and, meanwhile, we can read, watch and help them with spelling, math, geography without difficulties. However, my prophecy made its way in our life earlier than foreseen.

Two weeks ago I could join Maia for her hip hop class. It was actually a Parents & Kids program again! After the first 15 minutes, Maia gently asked me to go and sit down. One week later, same scene, same request, same situation: Maia dancing happy by herself among other kids and other parents. Observing her I tried to understand her request and going beyond the human disappointment and sadness that a parent can feel when “refused”, I was actually happy. My 4 years old daughter is an independent person. She is not me, she is another individual and my role is just to give my hand to her trying to make her feel the urgency of respecting basic principles. I spent the rest of the hour looking proudly at her and her sense of freedom.

Once again, a new lesson: keep it simple! After few days, a revelation! “Maia, why didn’t you want to dance with me? Am I ugly? Don’t you like me?”... ”No Mamma, io ti amo!” ...”Why? Do you just want to dance by yourself?”... “I like you looking at me!”... “Maia, but I don’t understand!”

...

Silence...

“Mom?  You don’t know how to dance Incy Wincy Spider!”

Thank God, we didn’t go to Germany!

Immigration, Celebrations, Traditions and Bunnies

 

Moving to Canada implies many, many things. One of the nicest one, however, is that Canada encourages people to keep alive  their background, their native language, culture and traditions. This is definitely one of the reasons why I love this Country so much.

In some way, that makes things as nice as difficult sometimes. Having kids, in fact, exposes you to a multitude of questions and options and, not always, it is easy to come up with a good, logic, satisfying answer which is also capable to keep ancient traditions alive and stable.

One of the first example that comes to my mind is the dilemma with baby teeth fall. Every time one tooth falls down, my brain starts spinning trying to remember where I am, what my kids know and how to make them believe that if in Canada a nice tooth fairy leaves you money under the pillow, in Italy that is going to happen thanks to a mouse, a ladybug or something else depending on the region, or even the city within the same region. In Palermo, city where I am from, for example it’s a ladybug’s task to trade your tooth with money. Interesting is that the ladybug is the way kids identify St. Nickolaus. In the past, actually, it was spread the practise to hide the tooth in a hole and pray the Saint with the following words:

Santu Nicola,
Santu Nicola
vi rugnu a zappa vecchia
vui mi dati a zappa nuova.

The tooth fairy thing is just one example considering that this dilemma pops up quite often in a new comer life. So, not only you have to adjust to things essential to your survival, but you are also required to make your children believe that everything is manageable. In my opinion this is quite amazing and, no doubt, highly motivating.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Having said that, let’s talk about Easter, Easter Bunny, Easter eggs, Pupo cu l’uovu and Pecorella di martorana. Maia came back home from school few days ago reminding me that Mr. Easter Bunny was coming to leave Easter Eggs. “Who is coming?”, “Easter Bunny, Mom”. “He is going to bring me eggs, you know!”.

It usually happens while I am driving and I can feel Maia’s presence behind me that I start thinking about these differences. Of course, Maia’s curiosity and the daily report to let me know what she did during the day aren’t entirely negligible.

Who is Easter Bunny? In Italy we didn’t have him and I couldn’t understand why eggs were brought by a bunny instead of a duck, for example.We do have eggs though!

Easter Bunny, derives form ancient pre-christian pagan rituals celebrating fertility and productiveness. As according to the tradition, rabbits and hares are among the most fertile animals ever, they soon became a symbol of the renewal of life that in the endless cycle of seasons corresponds to Spring.

It seems that the cute bunny became a symbol of Easter in Germany in XV century. On top of that, the first bunny-shaped cookies were circulating always in Germany in 1800. Later, German and Dutch immigrants imported this tradition to America where Easter Bunny brings eggs in a basket for those kids who were nice during the year. The only problem is that, being Mr. Bunny a naughty fellow, he loves to hide those eggs in bushes and grass.

I had to move to Canada to be able to understand why Mr. Lindt (maitre chocolatier) sells tones of golden bunnies for Easter!

What about eggs? Egg has always been considered symbol for life and sacredness. Egyptians, for example, considered the egg the fulcrum of universe 4 elements. It appears that Persians used to exchange hen-eggs at the arrival of Spring, followed by other populations.

In Sicily, we do have chocolate eggs but also we use real hen-eggs to decorate special bread baked for Easter, Pupuo cu l’uovo (puppet with egg). I remember this type of bread since I was a young girl. One special person, Zia Valentina, introduced me to this and I like it or not, it is something important to me. The recipe for this special bread is common everywhere in Sicily. The only things may change are the name used and the shape given to it. I was so happy, happy like a child, when I went to buy some bread here in Vaughan few days ago and I saw a beautiful, reassuring pupo con l’uovo on the shelf.

 

 

Finally, another Sicilian dessert for Easter is “la Pecorella di Pasqua”. Everywhere in Sicily, in this period of the year, is possible to find this little sheep. Even if the recipe once again can change from one city to another, all these little sheeps have one ingredient in common: martorana or pasta reale (marzipan) and, in some variations they have pistachio or cedar compote. This sweet cute little sheep is always laying down on a green lawn realised with a green painted plywood filled with candies and little chocolate eggs. Finally, the little sheep has a golden and red“labaro”, banner, because in heraldry those are the identifying colours for Jesus Christ.

I have now one problem: explain to Maia that in our backyard no bunnies are going to hide eggs. An alternative could be to have a little sheep jumping like a bunny and hiding some eggs into a bread. Or, even better, I can give Maia some chocolate and...pray she is not going to ask any other question until next holiday!