It is February in Florence—the nighttime temperatures hover around freezing, the daytime skies are overcast, the cold wind coming off the Arno hurries along tourists who would otherwise stop to take a photo of the Ponte Vecchio, and the only warm room in my apartment is the kitchen. But it is also August in Sicily—I have traveled there via a single spoonful of tomato paste, the concentrated essence of the island’s summer sunshine.
From the small space where I spend my winter days warming myself while waiting for a moka pot to spout coffee, I am transported to another time and place where heat radiates not from my stovetop, but from the cobblestones of the courtyard at the Anna Tasca Lanza Cooking School in central Sicily.
