The excerpt below is a chapter from the book "Covered in Flour," where I recount a childhood day spent with my Aunt Nina. It was a day filled with magic and the charm of an extraordinary woman as we came together to prepare cannoli for the Italian Festival.
THE FEAST – PART I
AUGUST 1968
The month before school starts is like Christmas in Summer. Imagine an amusement park with authentic Italian Cuisine and the people you love the most in the world all rolled up together —like my Aunt Nina's cannoli filled with the richest, most delightful experiences life has to offer. This is how I remember "The Feast". To be clear, it is a religious celebration of Catholics, and I must admit, as a kid, I focused on the festivities and less on the reason.
It is celebrated annually on August 15th in Little Italy, where Mom and Dad grew up, and is more accurately called the "Feast of the Assumption." It's a special day for many Christians, especially Catholics, when we remember and celebrate our belief that the Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus, was taken up (or "assumed") body and soul into Heaven at the end of her life on Earth.
It was a special time with family that I loved, especially with my aunts, uncles, and cousins, who would prepare mouth-watering Italian foods and sell them in front of the bakery and adjoining building during the festival. I have vivid memories of trays filled with cannoli, irresistibly fresh and delicious.
Their crispy, deep-fried flour shells encased a luscious filling of ricotta cheese and dried fruits. The contrast in textures and flavors made you want to dance. My Aunt Nina was the keeper of the secret recipe, the details of which she seldom divulged.
Dad's sister, Aunt Nina, lived in California, the same as Dad, but did not stay there for long. She and her husband relocated to the Greater Lakes region and have been ever since. An unspoken but palpable bond marked our relationship. Whenever she saw me, her face would brighten instantly as she exclaimed, "Carlito!" She had this endearing, albeit slightly startling, habit of pinching or even biting my cheeks. It was a bit frightening when I was younger, but as I grew and became accustomed to her lack of personal boundaries, I found it comforting.
For some reason, I always felt that Aunt Nina had a tender spot for me that seemed to underscore my place in the world. I've always thought it might have something to do with my being the "boy who lived," especially when my older brother, John, did not. I felt as though her unique affections were her way of telling me how incredibly precious my life was—her gestures a physical proof to the irreplaceable value of being here, alive and loved. On Saturday, Aunt Nina picked me up from our home to help her make cannoli to be sold at The Feast. We set off for the store to purchase supplies.
As we drove to get the ingredients, she shared stories about her days working at the Pozzi family bakery in Little Italy. She used to bake delicious breads and desserts alongside my grandfather and grandmother and her siblings.
Aunt Nina had continued her love for baking from home, often making beautiful cakes for weddings and special occasions. Her skills had only improved over the years.
The air was fragrant with a mix of spices and herbs as we entered the Grab-N-Go, the old wooden floors creaking beneath us. Aunt Nina, with her warm eyes and ever-present smile, glanced down at me. "We have a special mission today," she said, her hand gently enveloping mine. "Ah, here we are," she exclaimed when we reached the baking section. Her fingers nimbly picked up a bag of all-purpose flour, feeling its weight before placing it into the cart. "Can't make cannoli without the basics," she winked.
Next, she took a five-pound bag of sugar off the shelf and set it beside the flour. She hesitated for a moment in front of the dairy cooler, finally settling on a block of butter, and added a carton of eggs. "For richness and body," she remarked as if sharing her well-guarded secret, which she would never divulge even if she were held captive by 100 grandmothers with wooden spoons demanding to know. We moved to the dairy section, where she picked up a tub of ricotta cheese. "This," she said, letting me feel its heft, "is the heart of our cannoli filling."
As we rounded another aisle, her hand reached for a small jar of powdered sugar. "For sweetness and snow," she added, making a sprinkling gesture above the cart. A bottle of vanilla extract joined the ensemble, followed by a bag of dried candied fruit. "A little touch of color and surprise," she mused.
Finally, we stopped at the nuts section. Aunt Nina took her time choosing a bag of pistachios, turning it over in her hands as if inspecting jewels. "The finishing touch," she said with a nod, placing it into the cart.
As we neared the cash register, my eyes were instantly drawn to a pristine glossy box with a crystal-clear plastic window offering a glimpse of the brand-new "Allan" doll—Ken's best friend in the Barbie line. Positioned at child's-eye level, it seemed to call out for attention.
Aunt Nina caught the direction of my gaze and, as if reading my mind, looked from the "Allan" doll back to me. Her ever-present smile widened a touch as she picked up the box and delicately placed it into the cart. "Our little secret," she whispered, giving me a conspiratorial wink.
Beneath bags of flour, sugar, and all the other ingredients for our cannoli adventure, the "Allan" doll lay hidden. It seemed to represent something more than just a toy or an added treat. The doll stood as a tangible testament to the quiet but powerful bond between Aunt Nina and me; a bond deepened through simple yet poignant moments like this one.
After we arrived at Aunt Nina's home, we headed to the basement kitchen to get to work. As we stepped downstairs, the grocery bags hanging from her strong arms, I felt an overwhelming sense of anticipation. Aunt Nina wasn't just teaching me how to make cannoli; she was opening a doorway into our family's heritage, crafting a lasting memory in a year that felt so uncertain. I looked up at her, my eight-year-old eyes wide with curiosity and respect, and realized that this moment, with its sweet and savory layers, would stay with me forever. The kitchen was saturated with the comforting scent of home as Aunt Nina carefully laid out the supplies on the counter: bags of all-purpose flour and sugar, a tub of ricotta cheese, blocks of butter, a carton of eggs, and jars filled with powdered sugar, vanilla extract, dried candied fruit, and pistachios. The Allan doll sat perched on a nearby chair as if eager to be part of the culinary magic about to unfold.
"First, we make the dough for the cannoli shell," Aunt Nina announced, opening the bag of all-purpose flour. She sifted it into a large mixing bowl, adding a sprinkle of this and a pinch of that for good measure. "Now, it's your turn," she said, handing me a fork to create a well in the center of the flour mixture. She carefully added cubes of cold butter into the well. "This," she pointed, "is where the texture comes from."
Once the dough had rested, Aunt Nina unwrapped it and divided it into smaller portions. She passed me the rolling pin. "Roll it as thin as you can. Cannoli shells should be light and crisp."
After rolling the dough into large, thin sheets, we used a round cookie cutter to shape it into circles. Aunt Nina then demonstrated how to roll each circle around a metal cannoli tube. "They must hug the tubes like a snug coat," she advised.
The oil in a deep fryer was already hot and shimmering. One by one, the dough-wrapped tubes were lowered into the bath of hot oil. They sizzled and danced, turning a beautiful golden brown. "This is the moment the caterpillar becomes a butterfly," Aunt Nina said, her eyes beaming.
Aunt Nina turned her attention to the filling. She opened the tub of ricotta cheese, spooning the creamy goodness into a separate mixing bowl. "Ah, the heart of the cannoli," she sighed as if greeting an old friend. A dusting of powdered sugar rained down on the ricotta, followed by a splash of vanilla extract. She gave me the honor of folding in the dried candied fruit, adding pops of color to the creamy white landscape. "Every bite should be a surprise," she mused.
Once the cannoli shells were fried to perfection and had cooled just enough, Aunt Nina carefully slid them off the tubes. Now it was time for the pièce de résistance—the filling.
Armed with a piping bag filled with the ricotta mixture, she filled each shell, her hands steady and sure. Finally, a light sprinkle of chopped pistachios decorated the ends of each cannoli, followed by a dusting of powdered sugar.
She instructed me to retrieve the metal canisters from upstairs and bring them to the basement for packaging ahead of The Feast. Lugging the canisters down the steps, I stopped dead in my tracks for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds. I was captivated by the surreal scene before me.
A beautiful light streamed through the basement window, creating an almost ethereal glow that illuminated Aunt Nina, casting her in an almost celestial brilliance.
Seeing her like this, covered in flour and framed by this otherworldly radiance, felt like I was glimpsing into an alternate dimension where love and creation intersect in the most extraordinary ways. She appeared to be engaged in a form of alchemy that transcended the mundane, taking simple ingredients into soul-nourishing delights. It was real. Better than a sugar high. As I stood there, surrounded by this cloud of flour and love, a sense of profound realization washed over me. Miracles aren't always grand; sometimes, they manifest in the simple act of turning flour and water into bread. And there, in that basement illuminated by a light that defied logic, the fleeting became eternal; it became clear that divinity often resides in the simplest acts of creating, giving, and loving.
At that moment, she looked up at me. "And voilà," Aunt Nina exclaimed, "our labor of love!"
As I took the first bite, the crunch of the shell gave way to the creamy, flavorful filling. It was a perfect blend of textures and tastes—a culinary masterpiece brought to life through tradition, patience, and the bond between Aunt Nina and me.
Our eyes met, and at that moment, I realized that the real secret ingredient was something that couldn't be bought at the Grab-N-Go or any other store. It was love, pure and simple, passed down through generations, one cannoli at a time.