On the Sunday between Christmas and New Year’s Day we had a tradition that came to be called Struffoli Day. It was the Italian family Christmas for all of our relatives. No one asked what foods they should bring; they simply cooked a favorite recipe.
But one year, in addition to a main dish, everyone brought a bowl of struffoli. Made from bits of marble-sized dough, struffoli are deep fried, then drenched in honey and covered with colored sprinkles. Quite unexpectedly, this day of family love turned into a bit of rivalry.
Grandma explained, “My mother made a large bowl of these on Christmas Eve for sweetness after our traditional meal of the Seven Fishes. Papa always put too many salty anchovies into the puttanesca.”
Grandpa said his mother built them up on a platter into the shape of a Christmas tree, just as he had taught Grandma. “Then starting at the top, using our fingers, we popped them into our mouths one at a time,” he said with a smile.
Each year Gram’s struffoli tree seemed to get higher, and this year she considered it to be a work of art. With so many people bringing struffoli, she placed the bowls on a sideboard with little dishes for individual servings, since they were picked up and eaten like little pieces of candy. Then just before dinner Gram made a grand entrance with her struffoli tree sprinkled with multi-colored nonpareils and laced with silver tinsel. The family applauded.
Grandpa’s sister, Zia Agatha, said: “Annunziata, your struffoli — che belle dolce. We should keep it as the centerpiece and eat the others. You know that with a Christmas tree shape those delicate morsels will be dry as a bone by dessert time. I know this because our mother’s struffoli were always dry.”
Then turning to Grandpa she said, “Isn’t that right, Anthony?” He shrugged.
Gram turned away and simply said to all the women, “Let’s bring out the meal.” Almost like magic, an endless stream of food filled three dining room tables.
Once everyone sat to eat Grandpa said grace. Then expecting Gram’s words to be: “Now let us enjoy our family and this feast,” she added, “I’ve placed cellophane over the struffoli tree to keep it moist. And next to my tree there is a crystal bowl of honey and shot glasses filled with toothpicks. If you think my struffoli are too dry, you can stick them with a toothpick and dip them into the honey. Amen.”
And at that moment we were certain that not a single person in that room — except for Zia Agatha — would dare to put a toothpick into Gram’s crunchy Neapolitan delight.
Providence Journal link: Dec. 28, 2014 Rita Watson: Struffoli Day was a sweet family tradition.
Rita Esposito Watson, also a PsychologyToday.com columnist, is writing “Italian Kisses: Gram’s Wisdom.”