Ma asked a lot of me before I moved out. Dishes, laundry, driving, various doctors appointments, anything you could think of, I was doing. Much like King Mao the cat, Spoleto’s resident creature, I was the unwilling and unknowing ruler of the house. However, when I told her of this trip, she didn’t ask much of me nor expect much from me. She only asked me for one thing—to find a ‘really good’ cannoli, to eat that cannoli, and to enjoy the hell out of it.
I wanted to eat it by myself for two reasons: one, I’m sentimental, and two, I am a very loud chewer. I thought I’d found the perfect spot in Assisi, then I soon found out I was wrong. It was a quiet cafe that served this signature flaky-crusted, chocolate-lined, creamy and quite large cannoli. I wanted to sit down and enjoy the cannoli so I’d be able to describe every last bite of the dessert to Ma. I cursed myself for once again falling back into the old routine of not following my mother’s orders, but I quickly realized I would have plenty of time to find one.
Rome distracted me. The pace, the noise, the people, the way the streets always felt like they were unraveling beneath your feet. For a little while, I forgot about the cannoli altogether. I forgot about Ma. The guilt of that is hard to admit, but it’s the truth.
It came back to me at an odd moment. Mandy had asked for brioche and jam from a café near our hotel. I walked in, eyes scanning the case for pastries, and there it was, right beside the rows of buttery brioche buns: a single cannoli. This one was stuffed with Nutella and sprinkled with chocolate chips. Not traditional. Not perfect. But it would be mine to eat.
I bought it without thinking. It cost three euros, but I would’ve paid ten times that. I didn’t ask for a bag. I didn’t wait to sit down. I didn’t even take a napkin. I grabbed it like a starving child, like someone chasing a moment that was nearly lost. I stepped outside and took a bite.
The shell shattered, crisp and golden. The Nutella oozed out the sides. Chocolate chips crunched against my teeth. It was messy and loud and completely undignified.
And then, something happened.
As I chewed, I wished. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the sugar or the sun. But I made a wish with every bite, like someone blowing on a dandelion.
I wish I could’ve taken you with me.
Another bite.
This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted and you’re not here to try it.
One final bite.
‘I want part of my ashes in Italy.’
I’m remembering old conversations and I’m eating a new food. For the first time in twenty-one years, I wish Ma was in my ear. I wish Ma could see the crumbs that lined my new jacket. I wish she was yelling at me to clean myself up. I wish she had the lungs to yell still.
I miss her the most when I’m cleaning my chocolate-stained face. I’m thinking about how we would’ve shared a napkin, how she would’ve grabbed my cheeks to ‘wipe the schmutz off.’ I would’ve yelled at her. Then we would have gotten another cannoli and probably taken a tums or two or six because we’d be two grown Jewish ladies in Italy trying to manage the food with our grown Jewish lady stomachs. I go to call her to show her the cafe and I go back inside to show her the plates of cannolis they have. I don’t know why I’m surprised when she doesn’t answer. It’s not the time difference, it’s just a difference.
I got a cannoli for Ma, and I got it for me, too. And it was good, and I was happy. I don’t know where she is or how she’s doing. I just hope she’s as full as I am.
No comments yet.