If it makes you feel any better, this reminded me that I had a Sfogliatelle from the local, stellar Italian bakery/deli, which I just had with a glass of bourbon. It was *amazing*.
I worked in an Italian bakery—well, a storefront that trucked in bread from Brooklyn and pastries from Deer Park—for pretty much all of high school. (It was next door to a record store for about two years and the owners loved me and would discount all their used CDs for me and do things like sell me Skid Row’s Slave To The Grind before street date—all of this set up my “spend all the money you make right away on music” pattern very early.) I loved cannoli cream (I mean, come on, it’s CHEESE WITH CHOCOLATE CHIPS) and semolina rolls and John Wm. Macy’s cheesesticks, but for some reason, I couldn’t truck with sfogliatelle until after I’d moved on to other places of employment. Maybe it was the supplier we got them from? (We got them frozen and baked them in the giant oven we had in the back.)
Oh god now I am just remembering that we also sold frozen pizzas that were absolutely delicious, like the perfect blend of Sicilian pies and Chicago deep dish. Unf.
Alas, I can’t eat any of that stuff now without getting seriously ill save the cannoli cream, but what am I going to eat it with, my hands? I think it’s time to cue the Cinderella (especially since I bought a copy of Long Cold Winter at the aforementioned record shop).