An Italian-American living la dolce vita in the Deep South

An Italian-American living la dolce vita in the Deep South

Sunday, October 7, 2012

You Can't Say No to the Cannoli

My sister was in town this weekend, and Saturday night she came with me to drop my son off at a birthday party. Instead of returning home, we walked around downtown and ended up at the Boll Weevil Cafe for some dessert.

If you haven't been to the Boll Weevil and had one of their sinfully decadent desserts ... I'm sorry.

Anyway, I ordered a slice of the NY cheesecake with raspberry sauce. I say a slice, but a slice at the Boll Weevil is half the cake; honestly, I don't know how anyone can eat that much cheesecake in one sitting.

We sat there, chatting away as only two sisters can do, and after an hour I looked down and HOLY CANNOLI! where was my cheesecake? Surely I couldn't have ... I mean, there was no way I could possibly have ... no, come on, it's impossible ...

But I did. The entire thing. Gone, gone, gone.

That was Saturday. Then came Sunday.

Today we had lunch at my parents' house: homemade pasta (not just homemade sauce, mind you, but the actual pasta, too!), bruschetta and, for dessert, my mom's cannoli.

Because of the cheesecake episode I had planned to skip dessert, but you just can't say no to the cannoli. My mom's cannoli are so good that she is the official cannoli maker whenever the Italian-American Club has a fund raiser in which food is involved. People even come back and ask for her by name, they are that delizioso.

So, with a cappucino in hand, we sat at the table chatting away when Holy Cannoli! I looked down and realized I had gone through three cannoli.

Gone through ... as in eaten.

Sigh.

I'm sure there's a moral in here somewhere,  but I'm too full and can't think straight.

3 comments:

Ellen aka Ellie said...

I have yet to say yes to a cannoli...

tiziana said...


C'è anche a casa tua il folletto mangia-mangia che fa sparire le cose buone dal piatto?
Non è colpa nostra, è colpa del folletto, perciò non preoccuparti, ingrassa lui non noi.

Do Not Be Anxious said...

The local Holiday Market in my town is owned by two wonderful people. Once when out to dinner, they greatly enjoyed the food and asked to speak to the chef. He came out, accepted their thanks, but in the conversation it came out that he was an unhappy cook, because he had a limited number of recipes to offer each night --- the menu.

They offered him a job at their market, baking breads (as he wished), cooking dishes of any kind and type (as he wished), and in general, letting him enjoy what he enjoyed doing. They didn't even mention a salary before he said yes. Now that market is my favorite place to shop, and the cannoli's, oh the cannoli's, the large ones and the small ones, I can't walk past the pastry area without them yelling to me: "Buy me! Yum!!" And I do.

I so very much understand the call of a good cannoli. Thanks for making me smile at your posting.