zeppole

On Sunday, Megan and I were out running errands. On our way home, I said “Let’s get Zeppole for St. Joseph’s Day”. It was late in the afternoon and as the words came out of my mouth, I wondered if we’d find an open bakery. Megan did some googling and we discovered that Del Prete was open until 3. The clock read 2:15. We had plenty of time to head over for our Italian treat.I

I grew up in an Irish Italian home which meant we celebrated both St. Patrick’s Day and St. Joseph’s Day. On March 17, we’d don our green, my Mom would make the traditional corned beef and boiled potatoes. The cabbage made an occasional appearance. Then, two days later, my Dad would come home with a white pastry box with the signature red and white baker’s twine filled with zeppole for all. (For those of you who may not know, zeppole is an italian pastry stuffed with or topped with custard, cannoli cream, or jelly. Always topped with a little powdered sugar and a maraschino cherry. Simply delish!)

On Sunday, Megan and I were out running errands. On our way home, I said “Let’s get Zeppole for St. Joseph’s Day”. It was late in the afternoon and as the words came out of my mouth, I wondered if we’d find an open bakery. Megan did some googling and we discovered that Del Prete was open until 3. The clock read 2:15. We had plenty of time to head over for our Italian treat.

We pulled up to Del Prete and we noticed a few people waiting outside in what appeared to be a line of about six or seven people waiting outside. We crossed the street and before we could even get in line a woman, just outside the door announced, “The lady just came out and said they aren’t taking any more customers after that man.” Her voice boomed in the wind and she pointed to an elderly man in a mask. There was already one man behind the masked man who clearly was taking his chances that he’d get in. A nice Italian couple approached the line at the same time Megan and I did. We looked at each other, at our watches, and decided to also take a chance that we’d get in before three. It was only 2:25.

“I didn’t know there were any Italians left!” the man in front of us laughed as we made friends in waiting. The line moved slowly and before we knew it we were in. Just as we stepped in the lady came out again and said “We’re closing at three. We can’t take any people after this lady!” And she handed her a ticket. Still the people kept lining up.

Megan and I were inside and the zeppole were in sight. The indoor line wove around the perimeter of the old, traditional, bakery. The brown paneling, the vintage cash register, the faded photos that hung on the wall kept me occupied. I watched a few different people emerge from the back with freshly filled cannolis. Each customer’s order was placed in a freshly folded bakery box, wrapped in that classic red and white bakers twine. I was in awe at the patience each customer received. It was like stepping back in time.

In our hands we held our white pastry box, wrapped in the timeless twine, the same box my Dad once held in his hands.

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