Blood Orange Love, and Other Tales of Citrus Fever

Lisa Roberge

On the plane from Rome to Palermo, before I’d even set foot on the red earth of Northern Sicily, I was unsuspectingly served a glass of blood orange juice from one of those large juice box containers. “Arance Rosso di Sicilia,” the box said. Little did I know that the contents of that box would mark the beginning of a great adventure. The flight attendant handed the glass to me - it was bright red, like the nectar of all the flowers in the Garden of Eden now being held in a clear plastic airline cup. I sipped and fell in love. The bright sweetness of the blood orange would follow me and I would chase it through the duration of my nine-day visit to such a fine vibrant island.

My trip to Sicily was the first time I’d ever been out of the Untied States and the first time I’d ever traveled in a group - all together, we were 42 - 29 students and 13 instructors. It was to be a trip of many firsts. The only expectations that I came with was that everything would be foreign and that everything would be beautiful, and I was not disappointed. The uniqueness of Sicily is embodied in everything from the cuisine and the jewel - like fruits, to the people and the land itself. As soon as the plane touched the ground, I found myself surrounded by a combination of colors I’d never seen before. Having only seen photos of the Mediterranean, my exhausted, jet-lagged self was totally swept away by the dusty aquamarine sky, bright sage olive trees, the miraculous blue green of the sea, and a landscape of earth the color of the inside of a blood orange; warm and fertile. The glorious sun was reflected in each tantalizingly yellow globe on a nearby lemon tree. I believe the wind blew in from the southwest that day, or at least someplace very warm, because stepping out onto the tarmac was like stepping into a gentle bread oven.

Once we collected our baggage and got through customs, our wonderful tour guide, Rosa, led us to our tour bus which would be the one constant besides each other and the incessant beauty of the island for the entire trip. As we headed out of Palermo, lemon and orange orchards began to appear with more and more frequency until it seemed like they went on for miles. Craggy mountains topped with umbrella cypress resembling a line of caravan animals backed the seemingly endless parade of bright golden green trees with impossible yellow and orange fruits, like a private constellation on earth. Giant prickly pear cactus also gathered along the hillsides, and their shadows as well as the shadows of the trees created dappled yellow and vibrant green expanses against the terra cotta earth. All the houses, some lived in, others estates abandoned long ago and left to crumble back into the soil, looked as though they all grew from the same vine, like giant butternut squash. Cream colored sheep also dotted the land, a few were chased by goats as they munched quietly on lush green grass. But my eyes always returned to the orchards, a wealth of citrus lifeblood and a riot of color. Once in a while I spotted a herd of chestnut cows resting under the low, sparse shade the olive leaves and shiny fruits provided. I never got tired of looking at them.

While on the island, I discovered that commercial citrus production accounts for about 60% of the Sicilian economy. It is not a sterile, mechanized affair as agriculture is here; each fruit is picked by hand and then into plastic crates before being loaded onto a truck to be shipped either to the local market or sold to Rome, where they are increased in price and marketed internationally. From the bus window, I would sometimes glimpse groups of pickers in the orchards, some gently nestling lemons into baskets like prized possessions. There is a story about how a few years back the government in Rome was buying lemons from Sicilian farmers for thirty cents a pound and selling them internationally for $3.00 a pound. The farmers responded by paying all their pickers before dumping all their lemons in the harbor. “They floated in the harbor for days,” Rosa told me. “It would’ve been pretty if it wasn’t so devastating.” Since then, the government and the farmers have come to a fairer agreement. But this sort of incident is rather typical of the colonialist relationship between Sicily and Italy. While all of Sicily is broken up into five provinces, each of which are run by local governments in major cities such as Catania, Palermo and Syracuse, ultimately Sicily must answer to the government in Rome. Further evidence of this arrangement lies in the industrial center outside of Syracuse where Sicily’s only oil refinery is located, which is owned by the Roman government. Only recently did the refinery install “scrubbers” - equipment which helps prevent toxic fumes from being emitted from smokestacks into the air. While nearby villages suffered the fallout of the refinery, the effects of which included increased occurrences of birth defects and contaminated fish, Rome was and continues to import the refined oil for cost, then turns around and sells it back to Sicily in the form of petrol for $5.00 a gallon.

Romans were also one of many conquerers of Sicily in ancient times as well, and it is due to the island’s rather frequent invasion that it possesses such a diverse blend of cultures, architecture and agriculture. If it hadn’t been for the Arabic conquest in the fourth century, Sicily may not be cultivating citrus fruits today. That was how sour oranges and lemons were introduced to the island, as well as the development of sophisticated irrigation techniques which made growing citrus in this region possible - the practice had previously been confined to the tropical regions of Asia. An early variety of sweet orange, the Portagallo, was brought to Sicily from the Portuguese, and commercial production began in the 18th century. Today, several varieties of blood oranges and lemons grow so prolifically on the island they are considered a staple in the Sicilian diet. I was pleasantly surprised to find this to be the case, again and again. During one unforgettable meal in a restaurant owned by Rosa’s son, we were offered a salad of blood oranges, red onions and balsamic vinegar. After lunch at a former abbey-turned-restaurant, we were given a fruit cocktail of blood oranges, raspberries and strawberries in a sweetened lemon syrup.

Two days after our arrival I was to be introduced to a use for lemons I never would’ve imagined. The entire group took part in a seafood extravaganza at a fabulous restaurant in Palermo. It was literally a ten-course meal. We were brought platter after platter piled high with stuffed sardines, filet of cod, octopus, calamari, steamed mussels, grilled anchovies, swordfish steak, wild penne pasta with a fennel cream sauce and risotto, all served with a chilled white wine. There was no dessert, which was just as well since we couldn’t possibly eat another bite, but we were all given small fluted glasses, like miniature champagne glasses. Condensation frosted the outside, and inside was about a shot of pale sunshiney-yellow liquid. I gingerly brought the glass to my nose - it smelled just like a freshly-squeezed lemon, but sweeter. There was a toast, and then we were told to just sip the liquid - chugging or doing shots of alcohol is considered to be in poor taste in Sicily. I was sold the instant the lemon yumminess hit my tongue. I’d just discovered limoncello, liquor made from lemon juice. It tastes bright and heavy and sweet all at once.

In each town that we stayed in, Cefalu and Taormina, I found at least one store that specialized in these liquors, and they were by no means limited to just lemons. There were liquors made from oranges, artichokes, prickly pears - just to name a few. They are all lined up by type, and therefore color, on the shelves, and at night the lit up store windows look like encased jewels. So popular are these after dinner aperitifs that they also sell special, hand-painted aperitif glass sets, but I’ve heard that most Sicilians simply drink it out of wine glasses.

Not only are citrus fruits widely available in Sicily because of their sheer quantity, the harvest is such that at least one type of orange or lemon is freshly picked six months out of the year. Citrus harvest begins in October with the mapo tangerine and the clementini, two luscious, juicy hybrids. Orange harvest begins at the end of October through November, and in December, blood oranges are ready to be picked. There are three kinds of blood oranges, the Tarocco, the Moro and the Sanguinello. Of these the Tarocco is the most popular for its intense flavor and juiciness, and it accounts for about half of the island’s orange production. Indeed, it was the only kind I was able to find and therefore I couldn’t run a comparison between the three, but I can absolutely vouch for it’s magnificence. Another type of tangerine, the Tardivo di Ciaculli, is harvested in February and March followed by the Valencia orange which closes the season. The citron, which I mistakenly assumed was a freakishly giant lemon until a kindly vendor corrected me, also grows here. Affectionately referred to as “lemons with cellulite” by Rosa, these lumpy wonders are sometimes eight inches long, bear a thick skin and, according to another student, “taste lemony but sweeter and milder. Almost like a grapefruit.” Lemon harvest happens twice a year; the first runs from November to December, and the second is at the end of February when the trees fruit and flower at the same time. The lemons from the second harvest are not as good, however, and one gets the sense that the tree is tired and needs the siesta of the hot summer months to rejuvenate. For Sicily becomes unbearable during the summer months. Some regions see temperatures as high as 120F, daily, and anyone who can leave for cooler climes do.

While visiting there in March, the bright sunny days with their cool gentle breezes gave no hint of the heat that would bombard the country in a few months. It was in this coolness that I had the unforgettable experience of my first Sicilian blood orange. Our group had just arrived to Taormina, perhaps the most beautiful place in the entire world, with its winding streets, alleyways, passageways each concealing secret precious enveloped treasures. But I didn’t know any of this yet - we had just ridden the bus up an incredible series of switch backs where we were dropped off midway up the mountain. A shuttle came and picked up our luggage so we wouldn’t have to drag it the quarter mile to the hotel. Once in the hotel lobby, while Rosa collected our passports and handed out keys, I found my way downstairs to the ladies’ room. Sitting on a highly polished wooden counter next to the door to the bathroom was a huge basket full of rosy oranges with a sign that read, “For you, from our garden.” I grabbed two and headed back upstairs, where I collected my things and walked up the ornately carpeted stairs to my room. All I wanted to do was throw down my bags and venture into town, but Sicily still holds onto some very old traditions, such as those involving women. In many villages women are not allowed to leave their homes without the escort of a brother or husband, and a woman walking around alone at night invites shame and unwanted attention. So I waited for some companions to get ready, and stepped out onto my balcony where I was greeted by the astounding sight of Mt. Etna, snowcapped and godlike high above. Gaping, blinking in awe, I peeled a thin-skinned orange while continuing to glance back up at the mountain, as if I couldn’t believe it was there or as if I thought it might suddenly disappear. The inside of the orange was a gorgeous garnet red, and when I scraped it with a fingernail the juice was literally the color of blood. I slipped a section into my mouth and the incredible orange - raspberry pulpiness filled my entire head. All my bus fatigue, all my impatience with my companions was gone. All I knew was that moment, the Mediterranean blue of the evening, a giant volcano peering down at me, and the glory of the finest fruit in the world in my mouth. For the rest of the trip I would slip one of those beautiful fruits in my pocket before I left the hotel. I wasn’t the only one to feel this way. At breakfast one morning, one of our instructors sat down with a glass of freshly - squeezed blood orange juice, the thick redness a sight to behold. One sip brought tears to her eyes. It is really that good.

Surprisingly, blood oranges were first formally identified only at the beginning of the 20th century. They seem to have developed their characteristic red hue from a spontaneous mutation in the Mt. Etna region. Apparently, there is something about the very cold nights alternating with the very intense sunny days that brings about the pigmentation, because if you were to transplant a Sicilian blood orange tree to, say, California, the oranges may not be red at all. Experts say the color and exquisite taste is a result from the abundance of sunny days and relative lack of rainfall that leads to such an undiluted flavor. These unique circumstances produce such a unique fruit that no one has been able to duplicate anywhere else. Believe it - these are some special fruits. The red pigment is called anthocyanin, and one blood orange contains a person’s entire daily recommended allowance of Vitamin C.

After my blood orange epiphany that night, a bunch of us walked into town. Most of the shops were closed and the streets were quiet, making the whole experience that much more majestic somehow. It was like we had stepped into a marvelous other world. As we were exploring the heavenly beauty of Taormina, I rounded a corner to find the most dreamlike, astounding sight I may have ever seen. A stuccoed cafe, closed for the evening, with perhaps 15 outdoor tables and chairs, was surrounded by about five fully grown orange trees, around which someone had ingeniously taken the time to string white christmas lights. The effect was truly intoxicating. Also that night we came across many, many ceramics stores, lit up like a holiday and filled with dishes and wares as bright and dazzling as the orchards themselves. The most popular ceramic design consists of a cobalt blue backing with sunny yellow lemons and olive green leaves. And it’s no wonder. Sicilians use the lemon for everything, from polishing brass to curing ulcers to highlighting hair to flavoring fish to disinfecting wounds - although the last, I’m sure, is no picnic. Later on in the trip I would purchase a sugar bowl with this design and a matching cruet set, the oil bottle with oranges and the vinegar bottle with pomegranates instead of lemons. These ceramic shops are a sight to behold in the morning sunlight, as we would discover the next day after visiting Taormina’s spectacular Greek Theater. They are as bright and colorful as a birthday party.

Lemons and blood oranges are also the favorite inspiration for pasteraccia chefs who make marzipan. Throughout my entire trip, I lamented that not only did I not like marzipan but that I did not know anyone who did. The perfection of those painted pastries and the time it must’ve taken to make each one was a wonder to me. And everywhere we went, there were baskets of them, platters of them in the shops, all sizes and all shapes. One store even had marzipan fried eggs.

One evening after visiting Mt. Etna, I returned to the hotel to drop off my things and left immediately for the small corner market right up the street. I’d seen boxes of blood orange juice there, the same kind as I’d been served on the plane, and I wanted to buy at least three to bring home with me. The sky was twilight blue and the street was quiet save a few passersby, all of whom greeted me with a smile and the customary, “Ciao.” The birds were singing their slow, soothing evening calls, and I could hear the soft swish of their wings as they flew between the public gardens and the hotel across the street. The branches of the trees seemed to reach out into the shadows, low and enveloping. I entered the market where I was greeted with more smiles from the middle-aged shopkeeper, who gave me an excellent deal on three containers of juice and two liters of water. I successfully thanked him and wished him a good evening in my fractured but improving Italian and ventured back out into the gentle evening. It was here that I realized, half-stunned with possibility, that I wanted to live here, and if I was able to find a job, I could. I was steadily learning the language and the people were so unbelievably generous they would try to understand me, and in some cases, try to teach me names of things. Earlier that day I’d told Rosa that I wished I could pitch a tent in a lemon orchard, to wake up to that galaxy of yellow and the bright clean lemon smell, and she said, “Why can’t you?”

I blinked. “ Well, wouldn’t I get in trouble?’

She blinked as well. “For what?”

“Well, for trespassing, for starters,” I shrugged.

“No one would care,” she smiled. “It’s not like you’d be bringing your whole family.”

This idea was completely foreign to me, even though I’d been known most of my adult life for being extremely, communally generous with my belongings and my space. For I come from the land of boundaries and No Trespassing signs, the land of Walmart and McDonald’s, the land where everyone has so much and so little they are lost and uptight, unhappy but hoarding wealth among the wealthy. And in that moment, carrying my bag of blood orange juice back down to the hotel, I felt a sense of dread at having to return.

The day we left Sicily it was pouring. Rosa said Mt. Etna was weeping for us. Even in the rain on the way to the airport, the orchards shone somewhat, like dulled brass. I so wanted to stuff my luggage with blood oranges from the hotel, but everyone I spoke to advised against it because of U.S. Customs. On the plane from Catania to Rome, I ordered a glass of blood orange juice and sipped it slowly. We were so late arriving to Rome that an Alitalia flight attendant was waiting for us at the gate to guide us quickly to our connecting flight. No time for last minute souvenirs, cappuccino or blood orange juice. When we finally made it on the plane (they were kind enough or had enough foresight to hold the flight for us - how would you get 42 misplaced passengers from Rome to New York?) and settled, the flight attendants began to serve snacks and drinks. The same instructor brought to tears by the blood orange juice in Taormina was suddenly saddened by the lack of it - all they had was regular, orange, orange juice. As I drank my own, it was made all the more bitter by the realization that the trip was truly over and that Sicily would not be under my feet when I got off the plane.

On my return to Massachusetts, in March, I found New England still in the throes of one of the worst winters in history, and I felt like I had gone to the greatest party ever and I was still drunk and nobody, not my friends or family had gone, so they didn’t understand. “I have found paradise, and I want to move there,” I’d say, “and I want you all to come with me.”

“So you had a good time?”

No clue. The drug called Sicily was slowly wearing off and I was beginning to realize that I was back home, everything was brown and grey and dull and over stimulating in all the wrong ways and the food was bland and nobody smiled and fruit was expensive. Very expensive, I thought, standing in the grocery store, overwhelmed and unsatisfied all at once.

And then, I saw them.

Over by the cantaloupes, at the end, was a basket. And in that basket were about ten orange mesh bags with black labels. The labels red:

“Volcano Oranges - Blood Oranges of Sicily.”

It felt like I’d won the lottery. Each three pound bag was $5.00, but I didn’t care. I grabbed three, ripped a bag open in the car and ate two on the way home. Maybe everything would be all right.

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