The recipe for struffoli reads as such:

400 g (3 cups) of flour

3 medium eggs

80 g (1/3 cup) of unsalted butter

40 g (2 3/4 tablespoons) of granulated sugar

2 tablespoons of anise liquor

zest of 1 orange

1/2 teaspoon of baking powder or baking soda

1/4 teaspoon of salt

600 ml (2 1/2 cups) of vegetable oil for frying

250 g (3/4 cup) of Wildflower honey

To garnish: slivered almonds and

sprinkles

“Nonna”, I said to my great grandmother. “Grandma doesn’t put liquor in her struffoli”.

“Laura, my secret ingredient is a latin american liquor and that’s why my cicerchiata tastes better”.

                      “That’s a fair statement. Why do you call struffoli cicerchiata?”.

                       “It is what my mother called it. Your mom and grandma just call it struffoli because it is easier to pronounce for them.”

                       “Oh. It is kind of sad that you are the only one who speaks Italian.”

                       “You speak some”.

                       “Only because I am learning in school”.

                      “You still speak it very well. Will you go to the pantry and grab the slivered almonds, orange zest, and sprinkles, per favore, Bella(her nickname for me).

                      “Sure. I opened the pantry door that had a picture of the black Madonna hanging next to it. In the pantry were almonds, orange zest and sprinkles, but on the shelf next to them was a mason jar of clear liquid with what looked like rosemary floating in it. There was also a statue of a man in a many-colored floral outfit with a beard. It was odd enough we were cooking in a kitchen in a basement, but the statue and liquid rosemary made it all the odder or maybe it wasn't odd. Her home had the customary picture of the last supper hanging in her living room. She had a bathtub Mary in the front of her house. There were Catholic saints on tables throughout the home, who they were, I had no idea, and she was always sharing her old wives tails with us; wear rings on your fingers to prevent arthritis, pierce a child's ears with gold for good eyesight, and there was advice about cutting your hair during moon cycles and tides that I could never quite remember or understand.

I brought the ingredients to Nonna, who had a black scarf over her permed grey hair and a bottle of some kind of liquor in her hand.

           “Nonna, what is the liquid in the mason jar with the rose mary and what is that statue?”.

           “The mason jar is florida water and rosemary. I keep it in the pantry to protect the kitchen, along with the statue of San Pasquale.

           “Oh. Intresting. She took me to her bedroom. On the top of her dresser instead of having perfume and jewelry, there were statues and candles, and a bottle of whiskey with what looked like mini cigars, amongst other things.

           “What are these statues of?”.

           “They are statues of the Orishas.”

           “What are Orishas?”.

           “They are like saints. They will help you with certain requests and look over you”.

           “Are they Catholic?”.

           “They are used in Santeria, a religion in Cuba”.

           “Why haven’t they taught me about them in Spanish class? We are learning about the culture of Cuba.

           “They likely don’t teach about them in that Catholic school of yours.”

           “Makes sense. I can’t wait to graduate and be done with that school”.

           “Bella, maybe you can get out sooner, and get back to public school. You have to stop skipping your classes and mouthing off to your classmates. You are so smart, and so good at languages. You can do well. You can graduate high school”.

           “"I have to graduate high school. Mom and Dad insist on it and I only mouth off to the cheerleaders and football player, and I’ve only been in one fight and the football player deserved a knee to the groin”.

           “I’m sure he did, but that kind of thing will get you removed from school and make your parents unhappy”.

           “Yeah. I get it”. I pushed a piece of bright red hair behind my ear.

           “Would you like a book about the Orishas. It is in Italian, but you know enough Spanish and Italian from that fancy Catholic school, that you can figure it out.”

           “I can try. So, how did you learn about these santos(a word I picked up in Spanish class meaning saints”.

           “Well, your great grandfather Valazza grew up in Argentina. His mother was sick and needed a nice climate to help her with her illness. His neighbors were a Colombian and Cuban couple. They practiced Santeria. They were named Berta and Beto. Your great grandpa Remo, and his mother Valentina, would spend time learning from them. They had a hand in raising your great grandfather. Berta was a strega, and when your great grandpa and I visited them on our honeymoon, she saw that I have power, and taught me of her ways”.

           “Interesting”.

           “Now, how much agua ardiente shall I add to this?”.

           “Well, how strong is it?”.

           “Would you like a little taste?”.

           “Sure”. Nonna poured me a bit in a glass. I took a sip and coughed.

           “This tastes like black licorice. Gross. What is this stuff?”.

           “It is a Colombian drink. Your great grandpa’s favorite”.

           “It tastes too licorice like.”

           “I will only add a little then”.

           “Thank you”. Struffoli can take time to make. My sisters and Mom would have made it go quicker, but they were busy that day. You must roll the dough into balls, and then fry them. Nonna and I enjoyed our time that day talking of her honeymoon trip to Argentina, of her Catholic magic, as she called it. When we were done making our Christmas struffoli, she heated up my favorite dish of spaghetti and anchovies. That day changed me somehow. I wanted to make my Nonna proud of me. I don’t know if she prayed to her santos for me or if I just wised up. That Christmas was a good one. Along with pie, we had the struffoli that we had made. For Christmas, Nonna gave me a statue of Yemaya, a goddess and on the card that she had slipped $20.00 into she wrote a note telling me that she thought Yemaya would help guide me. I remember how my green eyes had lit up. It was my favorite Christmas gift and to this day, my santos sit on top of my dresser. Nonna suffered a mini stroke a year later. A year after that she was diagnosed with dementia and moved into a nursing home. Two years after that, she passed away.

           To honor her, I went on to be an Italian and a Spanish teacher in the school district that I had grown up in. Her house went to my Uncle Remo Jr when she passed, but, when he passed, I bought the house. After a particularly long day of work, I will sit on the couch watching my favorite Italian movie, La Finestra Di Fronte, with a glass of agua ardiente on the rocks. When Christmas rolls around, my niece and nephew get together at my house, and we make struffoli together. Sometimes my sister Anne or my Mom join in and the process goes quickly which gives us time to enjoy multiple plates of spaghetti and anchovies and I give everyone the messages that Nonna gives me when she comes to me in my dreams, all while San Pasquale and Yemaya watch over us from the altar I keep in the basement kitchen, because of course, as Nonna taught me, the upstairs kitchen is for when I have company.