In the Heart of Vucciria: Maltagliati & Cassatelle

I was born in Tuscany, to a Spanish mother and an Apulian father. My "gnagna," who was more than a nanny to me, would stir the mashed potatoes—for the rabbit—when I still couldn’t reach the stove. With her, in winter in Siena, I rolled out the dough for Sunday ravioli. The basics of her cooking always smelled of rosemary, sage, and juniper berries. At Christmas, instead, I rolled out the pasta with my grandmother and aunt in Puglia. Stuffed focaccias with onions and fried panzerotti, to the delight of all us cousins. With my grandfather and father, we would go to the market to choose the fish. We ate the hairy mussels raw. In the summer, in Seville, I spent the days tied to my grandmother’s and aunt’s aprons, preparing giant tortillas, chickpea salads, and milk croquettes to take to the beach. Then came my university years in Bologna—tigelle, crescentine, and tortellini. After that, almost 20 years in Rome—gricia, carbonara, and scottadito. Then Palermo stole my heart. And for ten years now, I have lived here. Here, where the dishes smell of Spain and Puglia. The cod, the squid, the sardines, the babbaluci, the “pezzi fritti.” And still the olives and capers, the oranges and lemons. Saffron and all the other spices. So many spices! As many contaminations as there have been dominations. Just like my cooking, which carries all these many traditions.