Contrada Noce is a rough patch of remote farmland in Sicily that none of the Italians I met en route had ever heard of. Located outside the medieval village of Caccamo, its name roughly translates to 'walnut land,' but I came in search of a different crop. My family on both sides were farmers for generations (apples, mainly), a link that was broken in my grandparents' time—meaning I now sit at a computer for the majority of my work life. But I love to cook and bake, and I was curious about the work it takes for agriculture to become food.
I watched as the Tyrrhenian blue sky softened to purple. Sicily is still warm that time of year, and the sun's gauzy rays fell on my bare arms; in the valley below soft hills of tilled earth folded down toward a dried-up river bed. The saddle of a mountain rose behind the house, its craggy gypsum peaks pocked with wild asparagus and fennel.
When people asked where I was going and why, I handed out neat little answers about the virtues of manual labor and my own agri-curiosity, but I could always feel the asterisk rolling around on my tongue.
A few months earlier, my parents' 34-year marriage had imploded spectacularly on a windy weekend visit to see me. The details vary, but the contours will be familiar: Mom found emails, Dad came out, and the life they built together fell apart like wet crackers.
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