Writing Historical Fiction | Sicilian Grandfather

PART SIX IN THE HISTORICAL FICTION SERIES: VARSALONA

I assumed we’d be grabbing a quick bite and then heading straight over to meet with the priest. Instead, a huge round of antipasti appeared with arancini, salami, prosciutto and cheeses.

And this is after the meal was over.

I had seen this before in Italy and knew that it meant that we were in for at least a three-course meal. I started to sweat, thinking about my quirky food issues. I had been vegetarian for many years but had recently decided that I would eat some meat in public situations — if it were chicken, beef, or turkey, and did not come attached to any animal-like appendages.

I would eat a few types of fish but the occasional head that pops up on the Italian table had taught me to NEVER order fish in Italy unless you ask for it pulito. Just, no. Also in Italy, the cooks are likely to throw in cured pork, veal, lamb, or organs like they’re throwing in salt, so when something arrives that you’ve not ordered, you could be eating anything.

And I realized this on the third course, after an antipasto we could choose from because it was served family-style and a meatless pasta dish that was really tasty. The third round was a platter piled high with sausages and various meats on the bone. Zio Peppino insisted that I partake and he piled my plate with an enormous portion against my futile protests.

An actual cannolo that Zio Peppino “forced” me to eat 🙂

And this little scene would play out over and over again when I was with Zio Peppino. He treated me, and probably everyone, like a malnourished five-year-old in his care, one that he felt obliged to fatten up. He had absolutely no concept of calorie counting and would appear with huge cannoli and force me to try one on the spot. He would gift me bags of local pastries, because “I should get to know [them] to understand Sicily”.

And at every meal together, he acted like my grandfather always had, adamantly forcing me to eat more against my protests, asserting that I didn’t need to worry about my weight. He also liked to keep the wine flowing. Strangely, I never thought to complain about the wine.