Ricotta
Yesterday was Sunday. My summer neighbor Totò (short for Salvatore, or Turridù in Sicilian) (and sometimes shortened to Tò) stopped by on Saturday afternoon to invite me to get some ricotta for breakfast Sunday morning with him. We would go up to Caltabellotta where they make the ricotta, and the serve breakfast and dinner to anyone who wants to come. It sounded like a strange enough adventure, so I decided to go.
Fran never really liked Ricotta cheese, or pecorino, for that matter. The smell always reminded her of the smell of the goat her father kept when she was young, and she did not like the smell of the goat either. For that reason alone, Fran may have not wanted to go on this excursion. Also, I think Tò invited me to go as a way of showing his concern, as a way of forcing me out of the house and to be with people. He also wants me to join him at the year old bingo parlor, where they all know him, he is such a steady client. Tò feels I should not be alone right now.
I agreed to go with him, and met him outside his house at 8:30, along with his son (Vinc)Enzo. We stopped and picked up a friend of his, Onofrio and Onofrio's son, whose name I did not catch. Off we went to Caltabellotta, only 20 kilometers away, but 1 kilometer more in altitude than Sciacca. Caltabellotta is the mountain town you can see from Sciacca, and all three roads that lead there are fairly narrow and twisty. It was never Fran's favorite ride. We do know some folks from Great Britain that bought a small house there after they tired of living in the harbor on their boat for two years. They say the weather is always beautiful, and that they are often above the clouds. It is also the place that I see heavy dark clouds hanging just above on many days when it is sunny here, and it is the place I see snow on the ground once or twice each winter.
In many ways it is a typical Sicilian mountain town, and is known as the City of Peace because it was in Caltabellotta that the treaty was signed that ended the Sicilian War of the Vespers between the Angivinians and the Aroganeese in 1302. It is small enough so that when the kids are old enough for high school, they must board a bus each day and go to high school in Sciacca, Ribera, or Menfi. They are known for excellent olive oil, ricotta cheese, and Tò tells me their wine is also great, but I think it might be too sweet.
Totò drove up the winding roads, turning off at the sign for the wind farm. Fran and I had taken this side road once when we were first in Sciacca, and after about 500 meters we decided to turn around, as the road got narrower, more full of pot holes than not, and was incredibly steep with sharp drop offs. There is a wind farm at the end of the road, where about 20 windmills that can be seen from Sambucca are producing electricity. They have a beautiful majesty about them as they silently create power usable in our homes from the wind, and Fran and I loved the fact that we were getting some of our energy from apparently renewable sources.
The driving conditions did not bother Totò at all, as he followed the still cratered road until it gave up any signs of paving, and later became a double track. We drove by a nature reserve, which even had one of the old style houses made of dried cane. Eventually we came to the restuarant La Montagna, and we were the first to arrive. The owner was a friend of Totò's, and he was busy making ricotta. As he formed the fresh cheese into wheels to drain, I watched another man bring a thirty liter can of fresh, still warm goat's milk from the milking barn. The cheese maker's wife tended the bread baking in the large wood oven.
The owner took a large handful of the ricotta that he was getting to set, and gave each of us a small ball of it, which we had to squeeze dry before eating. As we wandered around, looking at the goats, the sheep, the swans, and the pig pen, they continued to work on the cheese. The cheese making area has piping that sends the left over curd and cheesy water directly to the pig pen for the pigs to eat. As we walked around, other people arrived, and by the time breakfast was ready, there were about thirty of us there.
First came plates of the ricotta we had seen him beginning to dry. It was solid enough to be cut in slices. There was also pecorino cheese which had been salted and dried and aged a little bit, and of course home made olives and bread. We washed this down with water and wine. (Wine for breakfast? Onofrio said that one should always drink wine with ricotta). Then the cheese maker rang a big bell, and the freshest ricotta was ladled into bowls, still swimming in the milky residue, and the waitress brought each of us a large bowl. Totò broke bread into his fresh ricotta, and Onofrio did not. I had it both ways. Either way, it was wonderful. We ate like pigs!
Later, the waitress turned on her karaoke machine and sang Sicilian songs, and several of the guests were dressed in costumes so they could become donkeys pulling a donkey cart with the cheese maker's assistant in it. All good fun. They also had a shop of souvenirs, and many people lined up to buy pecorino to take home. They do not sell ricotta to take home, as they believe that ricotta must be fresh to be enjoyed. Without chemical treatment, which would change the flavor, ricotta begins to change its flavors after, I am told, about four hours. This is true whether it is left as is or sugared as a pastry filling. After twenty four hours, the owners of La Montagna suggest that the ricotta is best fed to the pigs. They do send fresh ricotta down to Sciacca every day for small grocery stores and fruit stands to sell. The delivery truck leaves for town as soon as the ricotta is ready, and people wait at the stores until it arrives, fresh!|
Not being able to take any ricotta home was not a big problem. No one who ate there would want anything for pranzo anyway, and they probably had eaten enough ricotta for the day. Indeed, I skipped pranzo entirely, and only had a small sandwich for dinner, I had eaten so much great ricotta in the morning.
As we strarted down the steep road, we met several cars coming up, getting there early for the pranzo seating. For pranzo, they have pasta, and lamb, and goat, and pork, and, well, you know, fresh ricotta. It may not be kosher, and Fran may not have wanted either the flavor of the ricotta nor the scary drive over the small roads, but it was indeed a good adventure, and I plan on returning sometimes when visiting friends want a neat adventure. It was a meal good for the day.
Fran never really liked Ricotta cheese, or pecorino, for that matter. The smell always reminded her of the smell of the goat her father kept when she was young, and she did not like the smell of the goat either. For that reason alone, Fran may have not wanted to go on this excursion. Also, I think Tò invited me to go as a way of showing his concern, as a way of forcing me out of the house and to be with people. He also wants me to join him at the year old bingo parlor, where they all know him, he is such a steady client. Tò feels I should not be alone right now.
I agreed to go with him, and met him outside his house at 8:30, along with his son (Vinc)Enzo. We stopped and picked up a friend of his, Onofrio and Onofrio's son, whose name I did not catch. Off we went to Caltabellotta, only 20 kilometers away, but 1 kilometer more in altitude than Sciacca. Caltabellotta is the mountain town you can see from Sciacca, and all three roads that lead there are fairly narrow and twisty. It was never Fran's favorite ride. We do know some folks from Great Britain that bought a small house there after they tired of living in the harbor on their boat for two years. They say the weather is always beautiful, and that they are often above the clouds. It is also the place that I see heavy dark clouds hanging just above on many days when it is sunny here, and it is the place I see snow on the ground once or twice each winter.
In many ways it is a typical Sicilian mountain town, and is known as the City of Peace because it was in Caltabellotta that the treaty was signed that ended the Sicilian War of the Vespers between the Angivinians and the Aroganeese in 1302. It is small enough so that when the kids are old enough for high school, they must board a bus each day and go to high school in Sciacca, Ribera, or Menfi. They are known for excellent olive oil, ricotta cheese, and Tò tells me their wine is also great, but I think it might be too sweet.
Totò drove up the winding roads, turning off at the sign for the wind farm. Fran and I had taken this side road once when we were first in Sciacca, and after about 500 meters we decided to turn around, as the road got narrower, more full of pot holes than not, and was incredibly steep with sharp drop offs. There is a wind farm at the end of the road, where about 20 windmills that can be seen from Sambucca are producing electricity. They have a beautiful majesty about them as they silently create power usable in our homes from the wind, and Fran and I loved the fact that we were getting some of our energy from apparently renewable sources.
The driving conditions did not bother Totò at all, as he followed the still cratered road until it gave up any signs of paving, and later became a double track. We drove by a nature reserve, which even had one of the old style houses made of dried cane. Eventually we came to the restuarant La Montagna, and we were the first to arrive. The owner was a friend of Totò's, and he was busy making ricotta. As he formed the fresh cheese into wheels to drain, I watched another man bring a thirty liter can of fresh, still warm goat's milk from the milking barn. The cheese maker's wife tended the bread baking in the large wood oven.
The owner took a large handful of the ricotta that he was getting to set, and gave each of us a small ball of it, which we had to squeeze dry before eating. As we wandered around, looking at the goats, the sheep, the swans, and the pig pen, they continued to work on the cheese. The cheese making area has piping that sends the left over curd and cheesy water directly to the pig pen for the pigs to eat. As we walked around, other people arrived, and by the time breakfast was ready, there were about thirty of us there.
First came plates of the ricotta we had seen him beginning to dry. It was solid enough to be cut in slices. There was also pecorino cheese which had been salted and dried and aged a little bit, and of course home made olives and bread. We washed this down with water and wine. (Wine for breakfast? Onofrio said that one should always drink wine with ricotta). Then the cheese maker rang a big bell, and the freshest ricotta was ladled into bowls, still swimming in the milky residue, and the waitress brought each of us a large bowl. Totò broke bread into his fresh ricotta, and Onofrio did not. I had it both ways. Either way, it was wonderful. We ate like pigs!
Later, the waitress turned on her karaoke machine and sang Sicilian songs, and several of the guests were dressed in costumes so they could become donkeys pulling a donkey cart with the cheese maker's assistant in it. All good fun. They also had a shop of souvenirs, and many people lined up to buy pecorino to take home. They do not sell ricotta to take home, as they believe that ricotta must be fresh to be enjoyed. Without chemical treatment, which would change the flavor, ricotta begins to change its flavors after, I am told, about four hours. This is true whether it is left as is or sugared as a pastry filling. After twenty four hours, the owners of La Montagna suggest that the ricotta is best fed to the pigs. They do send fresh ricotta down to Sciacca every day for small grocery stores and fruit stands to sell. The delivery truck leaves for town as soon as the ricotta is ready, and people wait at the stores until it arrives, fresh!|
Not being able to take any ricotta home was not a big problem. No one who ate there would want anything for pranzo anyway, and they probably had eaten enough ricotta for the day. Indeed, I skipped pranzo entirely, and only had a small sandwich for dinner, I had eaten so much great ricotta in the morning.
As we strarted down the steep road, we met several cars coming up, getting there early for the pranzo seating. For pranzo, they have pasta, and lamb, and goat, and pork, and, well, you know, fresh ricotta. It may not be kosher, and Fran may not have wanted either the flavor of the ricotta nor the scary drive over the small roads, but it was indeed a good adventure, and I plan on returning sometimes when visiting friends want a neat adventure. It was a meal good for the day.
posted by Steve at 7:53 AM
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