I was surprised to discover this Sicilian delight in the quaint Cuban bakery across from my house.
Blanketed in a snowy mountain of confectioner's sugar, the cannoli has always reserved a special place in my heart.
When I was in elementary school, I was the girl with a speech problem, a New York accent to be more specific. To many of my peers surprise, I never lived there. They thought I was a liar, but I vehemently proclaimed I was telling the truth. My fellow first graders thought this because of my speech problem. I had extreme difficulty pronouncing the letter "R" correctly.
After a series of school speech pathology, the kind counselor suggested to my mother to seek a private teacher to fix my accent. At the time, I thought nothing of it. I actually enjoyed my distinct drawl as it marked me as unique and strange.
All the kids questioned and snickered that I was adopted or got switched at birth.
Within a few weeks after the received suggestion, Mom began taking me to speech therapy. I hated it. I felt the speech teacher was trying take away MY one special "something".
Before driving back home, Mom would always stop by the little bakery and allow me to get one small treat for a hard day's work. My favorites included the napoleon, eclair and strawberry tart, however, nothing rivaled the glory and perfection of the flaky cannoli. With a mouthful of the creamy goodness, I questioned her if what I considered a "gift" was really a serious problem. She reassuringly said she loved my New York accent and would still love me without it. Mom told me not to care what others think, but to enjoy the person God made me to be. While I finished off my gigantic cannoli, I digested her maternal arduous words of wisdom.
