When I visited my family in Sicily last spring, I ate almost continuously for a week. In those six days, I forgot what it felt like to be hungry. This, I suppose, is the point of going to Sicily. I remember every meal I had there in almost freakish detail—a chive tied around a hard-boiled egg, the tiny, edible spines of fried sardines. At one point, my Uncle Turi said to me between bites of a pizza topped with artichoke hearts and prosciutto, “You realize, of course, that the best food in the world is in Italy and the best food in Italy is in Sicily.”
You know what? He was completely right. Of all the amazing meals I ate in every corner of Italy—and there were dozens of them, trust me—none were quite like the food in Sicily. None were so packed with flavor or so effortlessly and elegantly prepared, and this was both in restaurants and at home. They sent me back to Paris a solid five pounds heavier and I hardly cared. I refused nothing.
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I'm a New York City-based writer and editor who loves to travel, whether abroad or just around the corner from my apartment. I …
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