Strufoli is a Christmas staple. We make it every year, without fail, one or two days before our big Christmas Eve party. More than anything, it gets me into the Christmas spirit.
To make strufoli, you have to roll a lot of dough into little logs, cut them into balls, fry them, and then drizzle hot honey and sprinkles over them. The process is tedious, and not for the weak willed.
Here are some foolproof steps even you can follow to make strufoli at home:
First, assemble your team. I make it with my family: my mom and dad always, and Nicole and Anthony when they are home. When they aren’t, my mom picks up the slack by rolling out the extra dough. (Though, given Anthony’s ineptitude with the rolling, things usually go more smoothly when he’s not around. He talks a big game - “I’m an athlete I can do anything!” - but he can never match my technique).
Once your kitchen staff is ready, you will need some very loud Christmas music. We listen to the classics from my dad’s Pandora station. This goes on for a while until I try to sneak in a little N’sync, to my dad’s frustration. We can’t all have good taste in music.
Next, don your chef’s whites. I’m usually in my pajamas when we make strufoli, which become my all-day attire when I’m home from school on Christmas break. Often, these are the same pajamas my parents gave all of us kids on previous Christmases (they are matching, of course). We also wear aprons. It is very important that you do not wash your aprons between uses. I’m pretty sure my dad’s apron hasn’t been washed since the 1970s.
When you make stufoli, you ought to sing the Christmas songs loudly (seriously…loudly). Between song lyrics, though, you can catch up with your kitchen staff about what’s going on in their lives. My sister and I gossip, and since Nikki gets bored with the process so easily - she’ll sigh: “constantly rolling, constantly cutting” - we end up doing more gossiping than rolling. Anthony will tell us about work or friends, and my dad will re-commit to making taralles (for all the non-Italians reading, that’s DAH-DALL-Z) or zeppole (you can hear him shout over the music: ”you better believe they will be better than Vinnie’s this time!”).
Now, it is imperative that you listen to your head chef. My dad is pretty picky when it comes to strufoli. He’s the goldilocks of the kitchen, and there’s a feedback process he follows nearly every Christmas until his strufoli are just right. First, he tells us to roll and cut the strufoli by ourselves, but not a minute later: “This is too big! Make it smaller.” So, we make it smaller. Two more minutes, then: “These are too small! Make them bigger,” to which I respond “Well, why don’t you just do them yourself then?!?!” (respond in my head, that is).
An actual photo of my dad making strufoli.
The whole process ends with about a bag’s worth of crisp white flour spilling over the table onto the floor.
Now, you’re ready to make strufoli yourself…
Ingredients
- 4 eggs
- 1/4 cup sugar
- 1 teaspoon vanilla
- 1 teaspoon cinnamon
- 1 tablespoon margarine
- 2 1/2 cups flour
- 1/2 cup honey
- vegetable oil
- confetti
Recipe
- In a large bowl, mix together eggs, sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, and margarine.
- Add flour, 1 cup at a time. The last 1/2 cup of flour an be added if necessary to make a smooth dough. Let the dough stay in the bowl, covered with a dish, for half an hour.
- Roll out portions of the dough. Cut it into strips, rounded like pretzels, then cut into 1/2 inch pieces.
- Heat about 2 1/2 inches of oil at the bottom of a pan. Fry the pieces of dough, a handful at a time. Place pieces on paper towels to drain.
- Heat honey until just under boiling. Place strufoli in a bowl and drizzle honey over them, gently tossing. Arrange on a large platter and sprinkle with confetti. Shape into a wreath.
I hated strufoli when I was a kid. I hated the taste, I hated how sticky they were (I would often eat them before we put the honey on). I couldn’t understand why people would eat them over the other delicious desserts at Christmas Eve. I always associated them with the other foods people at the “old” end of the table (a contingent which is growing rapidly these days) would eat. Foods like smelts, or Sambuca, which, if you were not born in Italy prior to 1950, you have no business drinking (looking at you, Ben). Like the smelts, which are only brought out covertly for about 5 minutes after the rest of the fish has been served, the strufoli felt like an afterthought.
The only person I ever saw eating them on Christmas Eve was Monica, who really put the team on her back since no one else would eat them with her. It was as if my dad cooked this entire thing just for her! (Well, not the entire thing. We often have leftovers, which my dad would eat all day on Christmas Day as he’d watch us open presents. We’ve had more leftovers than usual, lately. Monica…step it up!)
Recently, though, I’ve developed a palette for strufoli. Maybe this means I’m getting old, too, but I can’t kick the feeling that they are a Christmas Eve tradition I would sorely miss if we ever stopped making them.
A lot of strufoli’s meaningfulness for me comes from the fact that we make them every year, around the time I get to see my whole family. This, along with our other…strange Christmas traditions, makes Christmas my favorite holiday. Seeing everyone together, eating the delicious food, hanging out with my favorite cousin Tyler, watching the kids in the generation below me grow up, hearing Vinnie’s piercing laugh no matter how loud it gets in Nina’s kitchen (and let me tell you: it is loud. The acoustics at Nina’s could rival Carnegie Hall) - it’s all such a treat for me. So much so that I even wrote about it in my PT school admissions essay (they let me in, which means there were definitely a few Italian admissions committee members)
Now that the people in my generation are older, we’re close to each other in ways we never were as kids. When I was young, the only time we ever saw some people was on Christmas Eve. As adults, though, we can talk to and see each other more regularly during the rest of the year. This makes me especially happy on Christmas Eve, because I remember that what used to be a night for “catching up” is now a night for continuing a friendship that we have year round.
I love everything about strufoli. I love that my parents included me in our tradition so long ago. I love being with my family, singing and gossiping as we make them. I love that Monica and I get them all to ourselves on Christmas Eve. And I love the thought of passing this tradition on to our kids and grandkids.
What I love most about it, though, is that making strufoli connects me to the people that are most dear to me. This is why making it - with all its tedious rolling and cutting - is consistently the best part of my year.