Delicious Expeditions

Warm golden brown balls of rice stuffed with spiced meat line the glass display case in the tiny, white tiled storefront behind a fish stand in Palermo’s outdoor Capo market. The shop, not even 8 feet wide, is camouflaged by a giant, glistening swordfish lying next to an enormous pile of fresh sardines. Mackerel, cod, cuttlefish, and squid fill in the rest of the fishmonger’s display. Spaced evenly apart, some of these shiny sea creatures, fresh from the ocean, stand on their tails as if ready to jump back into the deep blue Mediterranean.

Fish Stall--Capo Market--Palermo, Sicily

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As the ancient round, grey stone slowly rotates around the deep metal container, crushing piles of dark glistening olives into a thick paste, I step in for a better view and almost slide to the ground on the olive-oil-coated floor in the Ravagni mill. As I adjust my balance, the olive paste–a mixture of leaves, pits, and flesh–shoots from a small opening in the tub’s bottom on to a circular, woven mat. Stacked upon another, the mats are placed beneath a hydraulic press to extract the liquid from the fleshy pulp.

Olive Mill

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A perfect meal has just as much to do with the company as it does with the food.

Recently I had guests from Slovenia, a quintet of classical musicians, to be exact. All well-traveled gourmands, this sophisticated group of charming men were well acquainted with fine food. They came to San Miguel with an open mind and empty stomachs (and also fear of Montezuma’s revenge…it seems it’s in all the guidebooks).

After playing a small, intimate concert at the Casa de Sierra Nevada, we—the five musicians, four girlfriends, and myself, sat down to an incredible gastronomic experience. On a cold fall night we were ushered into a cozy private terra-cotta hued dining room with a large, wooden round table in the center backed against a blazing fire. The group allowed me to order for them, so I did something I’ve always dreamt of—ordering one of everything on the menu. I surprised the waiter, and even myself, with my request. There was a new chef at the Sierra Nevada that evening, a young man by the name of Gonzolo Martinez, who had just come back to his native town by way of Dallas and New Orleans. I was anxious to see what he could do. We were not disappointed. The multi-course meal kept coming: Grilled Vegetable Terraine, Huitlacoche Risotto, Grilled Mezcal marinated Oaxacan Quail, Chicken with Shrimp Mousse and Caramelized Apple Pudding, all accompanied by endless bottles of wine.

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My brother and his single friends have a policy when they meet a new woman who happens to have a pet of the feline persuasion. One cat is ok, but it can’t be the center of her universe; two cats is not ok, but if you really like her, stick it our and look for other red flags– there will most likely be many; three cats, run for your life and do not, under any circumstances, look back. I, unfortunately, fall under category #3. Since hearing this piece of male wisdom, my life has become completely clear to me. I no longer have to wonder why I’m still single. No more wasting my time fussing over my attire, hairstyle or communication skills since it’s about the cats, not me. Through no fault of their own they have led me into spinsterhood with their endearing love and affection.

Now this may seem a sad truth to most people; however there is a flip side to the cat lady syndrome that is not well known—cat sitting. Us cat ladies stick together. We only want one of our own taking care of our loved ones. Someone who will not only feed our offspring, but also give them special attention and sit home with them on Saturday nights watching love movies and/or “Friends” reruns. So, on a warm day in August I arrived in Manhattan for a month-long cat sitting foray steps from Central Park. See, being a cat lady isn’t so bad after all.

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