Culture corner: the Zeppole story
A close look at a favourite Italian treat.
For as long as I can remember, my family would go over to my Nonno and Nonna’s house on St. Joseph’s Day to celebrate my Nonno’s name day. It wasn’t a huge deal to celebrate your name day in Canada, but in some Italian regions, it’s considered more important than your actual birthday. For this occasion, many Italians, including my family, make zeppole, which is essentially an Italian donut.
It looks a lot like a honey cruller from Tim Horton’s but is more deep fried and has less frosting. Instead, it is filled with custard and topped with powdered sugar and cherries, sometimes with a serving of more cherries on the side. My Nonno would make zeppoles every year along with his brothers at our family bakery, Sanremo, which they opened and ran for over fifty years. Making zeppole for the feast of San Giuseppe was a tradition that the family and bakery continue to this day, despite my Nonno and his founding brothers retiring years ago.
Many regions make their zeppole differently, but people from Cosenza, a city located in the southern region of Calabria, make theirs the regular way and with a special ingredient: Amarena cherries. I never liked these cherries because I found them too sweet, but my dad and Nonno would always be the first to scoop them out of my plate after I plucked them out of my zeppole each year. I haven’t been to the family bakery since I was in high school and even though a lot has changed since my Nonno and one of his brothers passed away, I wanted to visit to see the baking in action.
Each zeppole started off as a giant mix of water, sugar, butter, salt, flour, and eggs. Once the mix was done, it was put into pipes and squeezed out through a star tip so each was grooved and round. Next, they were tossed into the deep frier for thirty minutes and taken out to cool down so they could be filled with custard and sprinkled with white powdered sugar. And lastly, the most important part, Amarena cherries. They were sliced in half and plopped on the inside of the zeppole, leaving one on the top; the finishing touch resting on a mountain peak of custard and snowed with powdered sugar.
My dad, Nonno, and zios broke their backs cranking out zeppoles for San Giuseppe, my grandfather’s name day, but the best part of their day was coming home with a dozen of their own. And of course, Nonno always had the first pick.
