A Sunday Morning Walk to the Bakery - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
Dr. Ed Iannuccilli, Contributor
A Sunday Morning Walk to the Bakery - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
It is Sunday morning, and I am strolling at a brisk pace to Batista’s Bakery, less than a mile from our home in Bristol, where the indefinable aroma of baking nearby marries the breezes of burning wood along the way. I listen to my stomach as it groans, “Nobody doesn’t like a malasada.” Yes, that’s it. I’m off to get freshly made malasadas.
Delicious defines these deep-fried, sugar-dusted dough fantasies that remind me of my grandmother who made something similar, pizza fritte, her Italian delicacy. Hers were also dough fried to perfection and dusted with powdered sugar. We stood on tiptoes near her stove, waiting, peeking.
GET THE LATEST BREAKING NEWS HERE -- SIGN UP FOR GOLOCAL FREE DAILY EBLASTOnce you taste a pizze fritte you're hooked, and so it is with a malasadas. There is a cultural story to the malasada where in Portugal, the dough is made with flour and eggs, left to rise, then shaped into balls, deep fried and sprinkled with a mixture of sugar and cinnamon. In Brazil, they’re covered with honey instead of sugar. Batista’s are a blend.
I stood outside (only one at a time in the store these days) in line with people who are speaking Portuguese. I shifted my weight, waiting, watching for my turn. There was added value to the delay.
I love languages, and for years I have been enrolled in one Italian class or another. When I travel to Italy, I hang in the towns to overhear the Italians because I want to speak like them, to blend in, to be an Italian. And so, I had that thought this Sunday morning while standing among those of Portuguese heritage. By being a consumer of malasadas, I wanted to let them know that I appreciated their culture.
So, I turned to one, then another with a smile and, taking upon myself the aura of an ally, I said “Bom Día. I’m buying malasadas.”
“Bom Día,” they replied. I turned back toward the bakery, a thin smile on my face.
In the bakery. “How long have you and your family been making these malasadas?” The lovely lady makes a slight pirouette, stops in her busy-ness, ekes out a smile, shrugs and replies with a wave of her hand, “Eh, long time.” The malasada may have been routine to her, but it was the highlight of my week. (COVID has rearranged my highlight list).
With a quicker pace, I arrive home with the fresh malasadas. Diane is at the door. “You don’t have to warm them. They just came out of the oven.”
The crispy-on-the-outside, fluffy-on-the-inside, sugar-dusted pastry was the perfect indulgence for not only a Sunday, but for any morning.
You must indulge. Why even a church feast is not a feast without pizze fritte or malasada. So make your Sunday a feast.
Dr. Ed Iannuccilli is the author of three popular memoirs, “Growing up Italian; Grandfather’s Fig Tree and Other Stories”, “What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner” and “My Story Continues: From Neighborhood to Junior High.” Learn more here.