Leave the house, take the cannoli.

Disclaimer; I’m Sicilian. Both parents are from Palermo where many believe the Cannoli originated. Love of this pastry is perhaps generations deep in me, inscribed somewhere in my DNA. Knowing this I pause, wondering if maybe my interest in finding the perfect Cannoli would bore all but a handful of my sweet toothed Italian friends. I had no doubt my kids would love spending the better part of an afternoon sampling desserts, and my husband whose cholesterol levels prohibit pastries wouldn’t mind being forced to sample a cannoli or two in the name of research, but the rest of you?

That's when it occurred to me, the word Cannoli is plural, and the singular Cannolo is rarely used. The thought of just one, a lonely Cannolo, perhaps is reprehensible to most. They are meant to share or be eaten in twos. Anything where "just one" is unthinkable must possess some mass appeal. I recommend if you try this at home, bring a friend or go it alone and have two. So let this be the last time you witness the word Cannolo.




And so we begin.

Most believe the Cannoli originated in Palermo Sicily - a treat prepared during Carnivale as a symbol of fertility. But I find two other legends surrounding the cannoli interesting. One assigns their origin to the Moorish Harem of Kalt El Nissa. Another claims it was the invention of pious nuns cloistered in a convent. Regardless of its pious, festive, or questionable origins it’s clear that when something is this good you’re going to have a few groups claiming bragging rights. Today the question of origin has faded to the background, a thing of folklore, replaced by another, more important question: "Who Makes the BEST Cannoli?"

 Growing up 18th Avenue was my little Italy. I would take trips with my dad to a little Italian record shop there. It’s one of those neighborhoods where you could smell the unmistakable scent of Gravy (red Sauce) starting to bubble early on a Sunday. To keep things interesting I decided to pick a bakery that was noted to be the Best, and then chose two other bakeries for comparison. Our trip started on a brisk and windy weekend just before spring’s arrival, more specifically for this part of Brooklyn, St Joseph’s day.

As we rode 18th Avenue from the high 80's into the low 70's we were struck by mix of eateries dotting 18th avenue: Polish to Chinese, Russian to Middle Eastern,and a dash of Mexican peppered of course with your Italian delis and bakeries.

Reaching Villabate bakery we noticed a line that snaked out the door and around the corner onto 70th Street. I inquired of someone in the line if there were any other good bakeries on 18th Avenue to which he quickly replied with a smile "This is the best." After passing the sign on the door which read "Our ricotta is imported from Palermo Sicily," we noted a counter where you can forgo the line, order a coffee and sample your pastry of choice. We ordered 3 cannoli, 2 cappuccinos, and let the atmosphere sink in.

There was an energy and movement in the place. Employees orbited around counters wrapping boxes and bagging loaves of bread amid an eclectic visual mix of miniature Sicilian carriages, candied pasture scenes, pictures and statues of assorted religious icons, and of course gorgeous pastries and cakes that look more like artwork than dessert. But what really caught my eye was a black and white picture of Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle flanked by a palm cross and a picture of St. Rosalie. To me, there it was all wrapped up; the fragments of Brooklyn Italian culture that I remember: Good Food, Religion, the Yankees, and the pride in it all.

When I asked Manny, one of the family members in this still family owned and run bakery, about the picture, he just gave an easy smile and said "We love our Yankees." Then he told us about his father who still goes to Pallazo Adriano Sicily every year to import the ricotta. He went easily from chatting with us to handling the large crowd, and shortly brought out three of the most beautiful cannoli followed by 2 cappuccinos carefully poured in front of us.

 We quickly dissected and handed out cannoli to our small brood.
O.K so granted I am not a food critic, and truth be told I had to rewrite this section to save myself from sounding like a know it all foodie,using phrases like "layers of flavors that contrast as they hit the tastebuds" (Yes, I really wrote that, surely a side effect of watching too much food network) But how else can I bring you there? explain why it was by far the best cannoli I had ever had? Why it left me looking sadly at my kids, realizing perhaps that for them there was nothing to build on here. This early exposure to cannoli was so close to perfection, they will inevitably be disappointed by some minor league variation down the line.

We clearly realized that our trip should be cut short. Yes, we could compare and contrast the nuances of other cannoli, but to what end? Having experienced something of greatness, built in an establishment with such character and tradition what was the point? As I thought about it, looking across at that picture of Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle, I realized that some things just can’t be compared - some things are clearly in a league of their own.

Frozen Motivation

Its February of a particularly robust winter here in the North East.

Quentin Crisp said, and I am paraphrasing “There are three reasons for becoming a writer: you need the money : you have something to say that you think the world should know or you can’t find anything to do with the long winter evenings". It’s the third one I disagree with. It’s the long winter DAYS that have compelled me to join the blogosphere. Days of more snow ,endless colds, and many afternoons in what my friend so eloquently calls a  "snot coma".  Add two kids, a hefty work commute, the longest driveway anyone has ever had to shovel and I find myself here, planning....writing.

My son was pacing in the kitchen the other day; it was reminiscent of the way big cats pace in their cages at the zoo. Looking at him made me realize, that was precisely how I felt.

Now OK I know there are many great things to do in the winter, but for me winter is like some exotic food I have learned to tolerate, grown to appreciate, but if I am being honest, really don't like. Besides, the bouts of puking, runny noses and fevers make it hard to find the motivation to build yet another snowman.
 
So that leaves me here writing this blog. It will officially begin in what I affectionately call the spring, or at very least in the swan song of winter, when I thaw out and get motivated.
As you can tell by the title it will chronicle my day trips. They won’t be your typical zoo, park, or museum jaunts, but rather a bit off the beaten path. They will most likely involve two or more of the things I love most: food, new places, and of course my three favorite people.

I plan to deal with the question that begins many a Saturday morning in my house "What are we going to do today?"

Follow me to hear about my first adventure. I will only tell you the title,"Leave the house, take the cannoli", then leave you to wait in the frozen animation of winter for it.