Today’s word in Word.A.Day in my inbox, referencing a Sicilian uprising in 1282 led me to a recipe for one of my favorite easy pastas, pasta con ceci [aka chickpeas/garbanzos]. It happened this way. The word was shibboleth, which as you know, is “the use of a word or pronunciation that distinguishes a group of people.”
So. . . in 1282, Sicilians around Palermo had had more than enough of their French overlords. The Sicilian Vespers ensued, an uprising that started on the vigil before Easter when, it’s said, a French soldier took liberties with a Sicilian woman. Her husband objected, eliminating the Frenchman with extreme prejudice. His comrades objected, but were wildly outnumbered. Mass killing followed, with French soldiers, priests, friars, monks, possibly French anybodys were hauled into the street and made to pronounce the word “ciciri,” Sicilian for chickpeas (“ceci” in modern Italian). True French just couldn’t manage the “ch” sound and Sicilian “r” even, literally, to save their lives. Contemporary accounts list 3,000 French dead, all for the want of a “ch” and an “r.” A fatal shibboleth. Don’t let this happen to you.

Moving on from this sad tale, we have
Pasta con Ceci. Easy and comforting, with many variants.
For 4 people
about 200 gr. short pasta
2 cans chick peas
2 cloves garlic
1/2 to 1 onion, finely chopped
olive oil
salt
oregano
parsley
Optional:
heavy or half and half
hot pepper
Washed,chopped spinach
Chopped tomatoes

Saute onion and garlic until soft. Add drained chick peas and water to barely cove. Salt and cover, checking often and adding water as needed until the chick peas begin to break down. You can also mash them to help the process along. Meanwhile cook the pasta, adding a bit of pasta water to the chickpeas. You are aiming for a lumpy, near-paste. Check salt, add oregano. You may add a bit of chopped hot pepper. Heavy or half and half is an option and a handful of washed, chopped spinach adds color, as will chopped tomatoes.
Drain the pasta, add to the pan with chickpeas, cook a minute to blend flavors. Dish out, top with parsley. Be grateful you’re not French in Palermo in 1282

After World War II, my mother moved north from a truck farm then outside of Houston, Texas with a taste for kidney and lima beans, okra and Fritos, a Texas cash crop since 1933. My father was from Brooklyn and his taste in vegetables ran to potatoes.
Okra was available in the north primarily in cans. I believe the brand was Dixie Revenge, slime added for Yankees. My mother tried canned okra on us once. The chorus of “yucks” raised by my brother and me was greeted by reminders of the poor starving Belgians. I really don’t why my mother was so obsessed about Belgians when all the other mothers had moved on to starving Chinese. The starving okra-less Belgians might have been the end of the story had my father not been more articulate that he had no intention of even considering “this stuff” as food. So we never had “this stuff” again at home, although it was unavoidable when we visited my grandparents.

I grew up and stopped worrying about Belgians.Okra had nothing to do with Maurizio’s Italian childhood (or starving Belgians either) and were happily okra-less for years.

However, recently dear friends and fine cooks, Chuck and Melody, suggested we try again, grow up, in other words. The idea is to slit the okra lengthwise, arrange on a tray, add salt, paprika, and olive oil and grill. They swore, they absolutely swore we’d love it. Hum. Sounded like a candidate for shipment to Brussels, but Maurizio bought okra, slit and gutted each pod  (we weren’t sure the gutting was part of Melody’s plan but you can’t be too careful with slime). Oil, salt, paprika (lots), grill. And it was pretty good. Not crazy good, but no slime, and none left over for Belgians. Too bad for them. Let them eat chocolate.