The Therapy of Tradition

What I remember most about growing up in Sicily are the little things. My dad’s hands smelling of oranges. My mum doing the dishes, half-turned toward the TV. In summer, the blinds stayed closed and the kitchen door was left ajar, though it never helped much: the sun was too harsh, and we didn’t have air conditioning. The smell of tomato sauce simmering on the hob/stovetop, and mum’s voice rising above the TV. There were always the same things on the table: bread, fresh ricotta and provolone, a jar of olives, marinated aubergines/eggplants and capuliato (sun-dried tomato relish). Coffee came after, sometimes with pasticcini (small assorted Italian pastries): a gift from dad, not for any special occasion but just because.