Lindsay Marie Morris

Round-shaped ricotta-cream pastries topped with a nipple-like cherry, the minne di Sant'Agata take the cake among Sicily's most sensuous sweets. But within these so-called breasts of Saint Agatha, you'll find not only chocolate and candied orange peel but also a tragic story.

 

The cakes are named after Agatha of Sicily, who lived and died as a martyr in third-century Catania. At 15, Agatha took a vow of chastity. When she rejected the advances of Roman prefect Quintianus, he had her reported as a Christian, for which she was tortured. Men stretched her on a rack and tore her flesh with iron hooks, burned her with torches, and whipped her. As if that weren't enough, her breasts were torn off with tongs. She survived because, as tradition tells us, St. Peter the Apostle appeared to heal her wounds. Eventually, Quintianus ordered his men to burn her over hot coals. Today, Agatha is honored as the patron saint of rape victims, wet nurses, and breast cancer patients with a February 5 feast day. 

"When people see these cakes and how they look like breasts, or they see breasts in the name, they laugh," says South Carolina baker Patrizia Boscia. "When I explain the story, they stop smiling or laughing, and they become curious and listen. I want to show them that it's not just a funny, pornographic pastry that Italians created; it's a celebration of martyrdom."

Patrizia came to the U.S. from Castellammare del Golfo about 40 years ago and got her Ph.D. in sociology. She taught in New York, Florida, and South Carolina, where she eventually retired from teaching and reinvented herself as a baker. In 2018, she launched Sweet Bites of Italy, taking orders online, catering, and selling at farmers markets.

The minne di Sant'Agata is one of Patrizia's more popular sweet treats. It has special significance to her, which we discussed along with the pastry's origins.

 

 

Describe these cakes and their historical significance.

The cakes are dome pastries, and there are two versions. One is made with pastry dough, and the other with Italian sponge cake. Inside is a very nice filling made with ricotta, candied orange peel, and chocolate chips. Then, they are covered with a thick icing layer—all white. Inside, they are very soft. They're very tasty.

 

They are related to St. Agatha. There is a mixture of history and traditions (or fantasy, in a way). St. Agatha came from a rich family, and it was around 200 years after Christ, a period of very ferocious Christian persecution.

 

A prefect had come to force the population to return to the pagan state and forget their Christianity. He saw this young girl who wanted to become a nun, and he fell in love with her. He tried to convince her to marry him or have a relationship with him. She refused. So, the situation escalated. He became increasingly violent, and he asked his men to take her, and she was put in prison, and then she was tortured.

 

The minne di Sant'Agata are not the original anatomical sweet typical of Italy or Spain. The Greeks created this kind of anatomical breast in honor of a goddess for a particular feast, and they made it with sesame seed and honey.

It is unclear when this anatomical sweet got translated into the religious feast of Saint Agatha. But it is not really so strange because, in Italian—especially Sicilian—pastries, there is often this strange mixture of sensuality—pornography in a way—and religion. If we think of the cannoli, they were a symbol of man's virility.

The strange thing is that these pastries were made by nuns in the convent. Nuns were the ones who really developed Sicilian pastry cuisine. They sold pastries to support themselves and their orphans.

 

But the breast in Italy is not a symbol of sexuality as much as we consider it today. Breasts are a symbol of fertility, motherhood, and nutrition. 

 

What does this cake mean to you personally?

I had never seen them in the part of Sicily where I lived, but when I started to research them and what they represented, I associated them more with the victimization of women. Even though the martyrdom of St. Agatha was not expressed in terms of gender violence, they are associated with the victimization of women and the courage of this lady who, despite everything, refused to bend to the advances of this guy because she wanted to maintain her dignity and she wanted to become a nun. So, in a way, for me, it's a symbol of women's resistance and courage. And that's what I emphasize every time I serve them.

 

What do you hope people take away from these pastries?

I want them to realize that there is a story behind Italian cuisine, especially traditional cuisine.

When we talk about traditional Italian pastries, sometimes it's confusing. Traditional doesn't mean that I need this amount of flour, for instance, or that I must strictly follow a recipe. It's not so much related to the menu as to what Italian cuisine is still attached: a ritualistic nature, a different nature, and a diversity of different regions. This is what traditional is to me.

I want them to understand what makes Italian cuisine different, the fact that it's still attached to events, the history of Italy, and the religion of Italy. 

 

 

 

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Director and food stylist Victoria Granof is well aware of America's love affair with Italy. It's something she shares, but one region of Italy particularly inspires her—and it's not the one at the tip of your tongue.

 

"I get so frustrated when people start talking about Tuscany," she says. "I mean, Tuscany is really nice—really nice. But Sicily is more my style; it's so different from any other part of Italy. People just think it's mafia, mafia, mafia. And it's so much more than that. I am on this mission to show people the Sicily that I love and that it's fabulous and different from the rest of Italy."

 

One of Victoria's obsessions is the aesthetic beauty of Sicily's famous sweets, which inspired her latest project, Sicily, My Sweet: Love Notes to an Island, with Recipes for Cakes, Cookies, Puddings, and Preserves.

Victoria and I recently sat down for a conversation where she shared her surprising Sicilian connection, her favorite recipes, what she learned working with photographer Irving Penn, the fascinating and sustainable way Sicilians make cannoli, and what she hopes book readers will take away. 

 

 

Tell us about your background and connection to Sicily.

My father's side of the family is northern Italian, and on my mother's side of the family were Sephardic Jews from Spain before the Spanish Inquisition.

We always thought we originated in Spain and landed in Turkey for the last 400 years. But the language, dialect, and food that we took with us, as well as a lot of the traditions, were not Turkish. 

When I went looking for my roots and to feel a connection, I went to Turkey, and it was like, "Oh, this is nice, but this is not home."

It wasn't until I read an article about Maria Grammatico, who owns a pastry shop in Erice. She said she was getting older and was afraid that none of the younger generation wanted to keep the tradition of Sicilian pastry alive because it was just dying off. All they wanted to do was move to a big city or out of Sicily and do something else.

I was really drawn to this because I was a pastry chef then, and I thought, okay, I'll go, and she can teach me. So that's what first brought me there, and I felt this really strong connection as soon as I went. 

Fast-forward to maybe five years ago, when all my family did our DNA and found out that we're Sicilian—57% Sicilian. Then I started really researching it. 

Spain wasn't Spain as we know it now at that time. It was the Spanish empire, which included a lot of South and Central America and from Naples down through Sicily. 

That's where we started from, who knows how long ago, but we were in the Sicily of Spain. And so there are still traces of the dialect in what we brought from 500 years ago, just like Sicilian Americans whose families came here a hundred years ago or 200 years ago with that same dialect, they will be speaking that same dialect for another 300 years. That's what they brought with them, and that's what gets passed down through the family. 

 

Is there a recipe in this book that has special personal significance?

I think everybody's grandmother makes biscotti Regina, the cookies with the sesame seeds. I remember my grandmother had a cookie tin of those on top of her refrigerator. Honestly, now that I think about it, it was kind of rusty inside. Those cookies probably took years off our lives!

When she died, I remember taking the cookies off the top of the refrigerator and thinking, "These are the last ones she's ever going to make with her hands."

I had one in my freezer for the longest time. Then we had a power outage last summer, and everything had to go. I forgot that the cookie was in there, so it went with it. It's very heartbreaking. 

 

You were a pastry chef and now a food stylist. How did that influence this book?

I had to go against all of my pastry-chef training, make it approachable and easy, and simplify it for home cooks. So, that part didn't come into it other than I love making pastries. 

The book's aesthetics were really important. In the end, two publishers were interested in it. (There were others, but these were the two that I was considering.) I went with Hardie Grant Publishing because they were willing and eager to have me not only design the book but also guide its aesthetics. 

I worked with a designer in Sydney, Australia, on the book design. When I saw her very first designs, I was like, "Oh my God. I love this so much."

Then they went through a couple of iterations, but just the colors! It was really important for me to have those colors in the book and on the book. It wasn't those earth-tony Tuscan things, so people would really understand that Sicily is different from the rest of Italy, period, and why it's so fabulously different. So the color had a lot to do with it—the graphics, the photographs, everything. 

 

Describe those colors.

I used pinks and greens and oranges and blues: the colors in the tile work and those on houses. There are pink houses in Sicily and raspberry-colored houses in the country. And I just love that color. So a lot of that; not millennial pink, but a lot of that kind of Sicilian country house/raspberry pink and the green of pistachios, I really leaned into that. And the orange of orange peel and yellow of lemons—just the colors in the ingredients, really. 

 

You worked with the late Irving Penn. How did he influence you?

I worked with him for 10 years. The funny thing was that I met the Vogue photo editor at a party, and it was a very short, cordial conversation. I handed him my card, and that was it. 

Then, a few months later, he called me and said, "Mr. Penn is looking for a collaborator. And I remember meeting you at the party, and you were very reserved and quiet, and that's what he likes. That's the vibe he likes, so I think it would be a good match."

So, for 10 years, I had to keep my mouth shut and not chat. It was a little bit torturous from that point of view. But you know what? I learned the economy of everything. There was nothing extra in anything. None of his output, none of his persona, none of his words, none of his anything were extra. Everything was essential. So he never had superfluous anything anywhere around him. 

I learned what is important in a picture and what is not necessary. I learned when to stop because several times, he would set up the shot, do a Polaroid, and take a picture. He would do a Polaroid first; if he liked it, he would take the picture, and then we would leave.

We'd be done before lunch. And it was never like, "Alright, let's do some variations," or "Let's do five more just in case," or "Let's see; do we think we have it?" No, after many years, he knew what it took to get a good picture and how to recognize it when he got it. And that was huge. 

It's a practice and a discipline. I'm so grateful for that because I've used it in all aspects of my life, including personal relationships. It's really important to know when to stop.

 

Which Sicilian desserts should everyone experience?:

Well, anybody who hasn't had a really good cannolo is… I mean, forget it!

I learned the last time I was in Sicily that they use bamboo as cannoli-shaping tubes. It was kind of a revelation for me. If you've ever done that with the metal tubes and fried the shells, the first thing it does is sink to the bottom. And then the bottom of the shell gets a little bit darker, which nobody notices, really. And then you have to keep turning them around and everything. With the bamboo, it floats. So not only does it just float and turn around by itself, but it's porous. So it cooks from the inside out and the outside in, and it allows air bubbles to come through and make the dough lighter. It's really an amazing thing. They turn black, but they are used over and over, and it's sustainable.

 

I'm also really obsessed with St. Agatha's breast cakes. I do them a couple of different ways, but the way I really love them is just with the pastry dough, the ricotta inside, and the icing on top. I love those symbolically—and just about anything with almonds and pistachios.

 

Most of my recipes are traditional, but some of them I developed that are just in the spirit of Sicily using Sicilian ingredients. I have shortbread cookie recipes, and one has sun-dried tomatoes and anise seeds. It's treating the tomatoes like dried fruit because that's what they are. Then, the other one has dried figs and oil-cured olives in it. It's really treating the olives and the tomatoes like the fruits they actually are. And it's really, really good. You could just keep the rolls of the dough in your freezer and then slice and bake it as you need it.

 

What do you hope readers take away?

I want them to appreciate this on so many levels. I want them to open their eyes and minds and appreciate Sicily for the multicultural, fabulously weird, and delicious place that it is.

In the book's introduction, I really talk about how if you go to other parts of Italy, they look like postcards. Everybody brings the same pictures back from Rome. There I am, throwing the coin in the Trevi Fountain. There I am in front of the Coliseum. They're all the same pictures. And the takeaway is the same. You can go to those places passively. You can just observe.

But what I love to say about Sicily is if you are there, you're in the game—not just enjoying it passively. You're not just looking at it. You're experiencing it. And some of it is funky, and there's garbage on the side of the road. There's some funky stuff there. But it's worth it because being there is such a heightened sensory experience. 

After so many centuries of being dominated and controlled by all kinds of different civilizations, people, empires, and all of that, it's just turned into this really strong, strange, wonderfully mixed-up, and beautiful place. It's not in spite of having that history; it's because of the history that it's so great.

 

>>Get your copy of Sicily, My Sweet here!<<

 

 

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