Cannoli

Cannoli is a taste as much as a sound. It’s the sound of Italian men shouting over their counter behind their lineup of cigar-shaped desserts. It’s the sound of Italian women—better yet—nonnas, gossiping inaudibly to each other over a wooden kitchen table that you wish only to be invited to sit at, gossip at, and try their desserts at. You can rent a Sicilian home to stay in and imagine you’re part of the culture. Imagine you have a seat at the table. You can buy the pastries and even try your best at a little Italian conversation. But you won’t know the secrets of the trade or the lineage of generational bakers and cafes serving these desserts. The sounds of the makers, the sounds of the streets they’re served on, the sounds of the cars, the plates, the birds, the distant greetings from neighbours at their opposite windowsills across the shared washing line that hangs above the cobblestone streets. The sounds of the cracking pastry under the teeth, softened by the whipped ricotta, softened by a shared love for morning tea, afternoon tea, anytime coffee and pastry, and that pounding Italian afternoon sun.