sweet like a honey bee

though apparently Sicilian api are a lot harder to handle than their Italian counterparts.  Wilder.  A bit excitable.  Which is why the honey they produce is so much more delicious than any other in the rest of the counrty.  Daniella told me this at the Cafe Sicilia in Noto.  

I took a day trip there yesterday because I had heard that the pastry chef, Corrado Assenza, created fabulous treats.  The best in Sicily reviews said. And they were.  When she realised that I was writing an article about the cafe - Daniella proudly bought me cake after biscuit after chocolate.  Even two balls of ice-cream - one; lemon and saffron, tasted like late afternoon sun, the other: montezuma chocolate, was flavoured with cinnamon, candied orange and almonds and flecks of pure, mexican chocolate. Almost as good as being there.   All this was rounded off by a blood orange granita and a glass of ice cold, home-made, lemon/lime flavoured moscato. Created in the 'old method'.  It was like drinking joy.

And then the honey - ginger, white pepper, bergamot, orange.  Made by the excitable bees.  Flavoured by Corrado in his laboratory.  Magnifico. I washed all this down with a coffee, and thanked Daniella for taking such great care of me.  "No", she said "thank you - for me this is a joy".  And I know she meant it.  

I headed off to Modica - higher up in the mountains in search of Sicilian Chocolate.  The province of Ragusa is apparently the only place in Italy where the cacao plant is grown.  

The chocolate is cooked at a lower temperature than commercial varieties (113 degrees) for 30 minutes. As a result the sugar doesn't melt leaving a grainy consistency.  I went to  Antico Dolceria Bonajuto - well known in the province - to try it out.  And I didn't love it.  The chocolate was crunchy and granular and resembled something that had been melted in the sun and reconstituted.  I had better luck at a co-operativo down the hill.  They were making and packing the chocolate by hand and insisted I try it.  Still granular - but gorgeously rounded and bittersalty. I kept a bar.    

I had two hours to kill until the next bus came so I wandered up the 200 odd stairs to the cathedral of San Giorgio.  Regal, beautiful but fraying at the edges.  A little past it's prime.  But, as I sat watching, two young men began to deck the church out in pale, soft, cream roses for an evening wedding.  Hundreds and hundreds of roses.  Bowls, sprays, balls, arrangements, bunches, centrepieces:  it was breathtaking.   As the sun started to set behind the mountain, the grand old building softened and sighed: and it seemed a perfect place for two youngsters ('the daughter of a famous man') to start their married lives.    

Then I missed the bus.  Or he missed me.  He drove into the parking lot, accelerated and drove right out again. With me running behind in my flipflops, waving my arms and shrieking "stop stop" (in English, go figure).  Not my finest moment.  

It took me two busses and four hours to get home.  Accelerating wildly in and out of deserted towns to the radio station's all-night tribute to Michael Jackson.  We arrived back at 10.30pm and the shuttle had stopped.  So I had to walk the half hour from the bus station into town.  Took a shower and suppered on a glass of wine, cheese and stale bread.  I should have been exhausted and crabby - but I wasn't.  Because, despite the 'buss'-up; for me it was a joy.