Struffoli, an ode to memory

A traditional Christmas recipe can also be a way to recall the past, like the one for the struffoli my grandmother used to make. 

The recipes we never forget are those that come from the heart, those that begin in the nose and then sharpen into an image like the photographs that existed before cellphones were invented.

I clearly remember and will never forget how that smell of dried dough stuck to me until I took a bath to wash it off. When I was young we took baths not showers and the tub was only half full because, as my frugal mother would always say, it was all the water we needed. And a bath was always the final act of a day spent making stuffoli.

For me that day came in mid-December when the holidays were right around the corner and my grandmother would reiterate her annual threat: “You have to learn to make them yourself because I won’t always be around to make them for you”. My grandmother as a small woman who was not exactly the nicest person in the world but her stuffoli were out of this world.

It took me years to determine the exactly measurements of the ingredients because my grandmother would always do it ‘by eye’. And then every year after she was gone my stuffoli were subjected to the harsh criticism of my father and uncle, who remembered well their mother’s stuffoli. And every year they would have a criticism to make: “This year’s they’re too hard, this year they’re too greasy, this year there’s too much honey, this year you burned them…”and so on.

For the past few years I have established a definitive recipe and it was not easy. To make the dough a kilo of ‘weak’ flour  must have 250g of sugar  and a healthy pinch of salt  that are mixed together and made into a mound. While this may seem easy, it took me five years to determine the right amounts to then mix with 10 eggs  and 200g of butter , which needs to be melted bain-marie because “we’re not making an omelet”, as my grandmother would say as she added two packets of yeast  to the flour. I always had to be the one who grated the peels of two lemons and one orange  because that was something she didn’t like to do. And I had to use her old, defective greater that was only used for citrus fruits and was always wrapped up and kept “on the lowest shelf”. Unfortunately, it has since been lost.

I was lucky that she would always consider it her inalienable right to mix the dough by hand . I would always pretend that I was disappointed to not be able to do it but the truth was I was glad. Even today I try to avoid doing it because I don’t like the way the dough sticks to my fingers, using rubber gloves doesn’t help, while I try to obtain the right consistency. But I now have worked that out, too.

When the dough is finished it is smooth and fragrant and already tasty. Three hours in the refrigerator  does the dough good and in the meantime you can clean up the mess you’ve made, including removing the dough from under your fingernails, which my grandmother would do using a stiff brush.

Once everything is in order and three hours have past, the time has come to cut the dough. The first step is to roll out many, equal-sized cylinders , which I thought was fun back then, after which you cut them into cubes  and roll into balls, even very small ones. “And make sure they don’t stick together”, my grandmother would always whisper out of the side of her month into my ear, we were about the same height. I still take great care doing this because I can still hear her hoarse and authoritative voice.

The pot used to fry the stuffoli must have high sides because of the bubbles created by frying them. The lard used for frying  together with the oil  was homemade and preserved in a jar. It was white and I always thought it smelled a bit rank and today I don’t use it, even if many claim it makes a big difference. My grandmother would always do the frying herself because only she knew when they reached that precise, unique and undefinable golden color that I have never been able to achieve since.

By the time the bowl became filled with stuffoli I was already bored but that was when the most delicate phase began, the one when the honey is added. My grandmother would add orange and lemon peel to 1.5kg of honey diluted with a little bit of water . And she would peel the fruit herself with a knife because “you’ll just cut yourself”. Although telling me this did not do wonders for my self-esteem, even then I knew it was a grownup thing to do. Today I use a peeler and it work just fine.

The pot used to heat the honey must be large and the heat high because the stuffoli need to be immersed in the honey and delicately stirred to ensure they are impregnated well.  Once removed they are placed on a plate in a rings to cool and indurate without becoming too hard. Using the above mentioned dosages I make at least three rings of stuffoli that usually last from Christmas to New Year’s.

For the past few years I have forced my niece to help me, because I like carrying on family traditions , even if she says that from aunt to niece is not the same as grandmother to grandchild. She takes pictures of each step with her cellphone but really does not have to worry because I have calculated and written down all the right ingredients and dosages. But I never try to make her feel that she should appreciate what I’ve done because I’d come across being a fuddy-duddy.

But there is one thing that has never changed and allows me to look to the future with optimism. Both my niece and I end up smelling of fried stuffoli, a smell that makes us feel one with the kitchen and that pot of oil. And this all has to do with the experience of Christmas along with the joy the family shows to the stuffoli we made together, the way I did with my grandmother.