Cuccadati: Sicilian Fig Cookies
The 1970s were in full swing and the holy day season had begun.
It was always my birthday that set my family’s festivities in motion. On the Solstice my parents threw a huge birthday/holiday party for our entire community- open door policy. Everyone was invited and everyone was well fed. Cannellini. Veal cutlets. Big bowls of nuts and plates of cheeses and olives and provisions. Trays and trays of cookies. Cannoli. Sfincione. A buffet table covered in wine, scotch, and digestives. Full ashtrays and cigarette and cigar smoke waved through every room. The kitchen was packed tight with laughter and yelling - this wasn’t a quiet group of folks- we were all Sicilian and Italian Americans. Kids all over the living room floor watched it from down low. Teens snuck out back for their own party with a stolen bottle and pack of camels, hands stuffed in coat pockets to keep warm in the frigid upstate NY winter until it was their turn to take a hit off the joint or light a smoke.
People walked in our house without knocking, loud, joyous greetings and always big hugs, stomping off the blizzard snow that covered their winter boots. "We almost slide into your house the ice is so bad" and "Minchia, I wish they'd salt the damn roads."
My mother ran around in a fabulous white pantsuit, her hair carved into a chestnut-colored helmet, grabbing coats and throwing them in the backroom and making sure everyone got a paper plate to fill up with food. My father passed out short stocky glasses filled with amber liquid. It was gathering space for Sicilian Americans of all generations to come,— to be loud, to be themselves, be together. To sing, and celebrate the season their way. Of course, since it was also my birthday, and I was just a little one, the packages piled up in the corner for me - an added bonus. "Mary, honey, you're getting so big!" as my cheeks were squeezed and my face stuffed in their bosom as they'd hug me. They’d smell like garlic and powdery perfume.
“Mary!” my godfather said. "Come over here! Sit with me!". His voice is deep. His eyes smiled. His eyeglasses glasses -- tinted. His shirt -- polyester and brown with black and white patterning. His pants -- belled and rich, dark burgundy. His shoes- exquisite brown leather, shiny, soft. My godfather was my dad’s goombadi, compadre. More than a friend. More than even family. Someone who held witness to sacred family events: weddings, baptisms, confirmations, deaths. The kind of folks who were there for you through thick and thin. An important part of the family village care taking. My godfather was father’s oldest childhood friend. They dropped out of school together and smoked under the railroad tracks down in Brooklyn Square while playing cards and hustled whatever they could for money - the did whatever they needed to help support their families. He was a good, kind man who always made me feel safe.
“Mary, did you have the cuccidati yet? I made them just for you. My mother taught me how. Her mother taught her. They have sprinkles… you like da sprinkles???”
He reached across the table and pulled a cookie tray closer to us. “Mangia,” he said.
“The figs and oranges come from Sicily.” He took one off the tray, looked at me - winked- and dunked it in his drink (which was scotch) and took a big bite.
“Mmmmm” he said. I grabbed one. Licked off all the icing and the sprinkles. I didn’t like the inside. I didn’t want figs and spice and boozy tasting cookies. I wanted the cutouts shaped as reindeer that were made with pink-colored sugar cookie dough and little silver pearl balls on them that you could eat.
I think about it now - and how this big, stocky man - smoking, drinking, factory working - made the cookies. The best cookies. Cookies in which the dough wasn’t easy. Every year. This wasn’t unusual. There was such a passion, desperation to keep what was still intact -- the love of making, of baking, of carrying on tradition-- that no matter what, no matter who- they still showed up in the kitchen (without recipes mind you) to make sure something was kept alive.
He smiled and passed me a plain biscotti with pink icing, knowing I didn’t like the rich filling inside these traditional fig filled treats.
By the 1980s, these parties faded. I got too old. The elders were dying off. My mother was tired. The gatherings got smaller and smaller until they didn’t happen any more except for funerals. People moved away. Their kids were not as interested in these relationships - these loud and radically bold people who spoke broken English and squeezed your cheeks and fed you until you wanted to puke. The kids wanted something different. Something more refined.
By the 1990s, it felt like it was all forgotten. The gatherings. The holy days. The language. Everyone spoke English. Last names changed. Nobody walked in and out of our doors anymore. Most men weren't baking cookies.
In a 20 year span - a thriving cultural community was no longer.
It’s just a little something, but it’s something, to hold on close to these recipes - especially the ones that come to you through humans, with stories, with memories. The ones that traveled from one country to the new one. The holding close to the flavors of "home" -- the flavors of a land your ancestors knew.
Even if I just have the cookies. Even if we have just one meal. Even if we just know one prayer in the language our grandmothers spoke. I can assure you it has great meaning. I can assure you -- the ancestors are up in our faces saying to us: Remember. Remember. Ricorda
So. Here is the cuccadati recipe.
(Tomorrow I turn 46 in winter solstice. And I will eat these and remember those gatherings on the Solstice of my childhood. I will remember my godfather. I will remember those who came before - who were loud, strong, loving, safe, Sicilian AF, and fed me delicious food.
CUCCIDATI
4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
1 ½ cups sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, cut into pieces and chilled
3 large eggs
1 to 2 tablespoons whole milk
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Grated zest of 1/2 orange
Filling
1 cup dried Black Mission figs, stems removed
3/4 cup raisins
1/2 cup honey
1/4 cup brandy (I use hawthorn cordial that I made- but any sweet spirit will do)
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1 pinch freshly grated nutmeg
Grated zest of 1/2 orange
2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup nuts of your choice (I use almonds because we have allergies to any other nuts over here)
Glaze
2 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
Water for the consistency of glaze you want
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Directions:
1. Dough: In a food processor, pulse together flour, granulated sugar, baking powder, and salt. Add butter and pulse until the largest pieces are the size of peas. Add eggs, 1 tablespoon milk, vanilla, and orange zest; pulse until a dough forms. If the dough seems dry, add the remaining 1 tablespoon milk.
2. Divide dough in half. Shape each half into a rectangle, wrap in plastic, and refrigerate until firm, about 2 hours.
3. Filling: In a food processor, pulse together figs, raisins, honey, brandy, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, orange zest, vanilla, nuts, and salt until a thick paste forms. Measure a heaping 1/4 cup of filling, place on a piece of plastic wrap, and roll into a log about 10 inches long. Freeze until firm. Repeat process with remaining filling (you should have 10 logs).
4. Working with one rectangle of dough at a time, place dough on a lightly floured sheet of parchment. Roll out dough to a 15-by-10-inch rectangle, a scant 1/4 inch thick. Transfer parchment to a baking sheet; refrigerate 30 minutes. Repeat process with remaining dough.
5. Cut each rectangle of dough crosswise into five 3-inch-wide strips. Position one strip of dough on a work surface with long sides parallel to the edge of the work surface. Place one log of filling along the upper edge of the long side of each strip. Fold remaining dough over filling to enclose. Transfer to a parchment-lined baking sheet, seam-side down. Refrigerate until chilled, about 30 minutes. Repeat process with remaining dough and filling.
6. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cut logs into 2-inch pieces. Using a paring knife, make 2 cuts on one side of each piece, being careful not to cut all the way through. Shape each piece into a crescent, with the cuts on the outside of the crescent. Transfer to parchment-lined baking sheets. Bake, rotating halfway through until bottoms are brown and tops are light golden brown, 18 to 22 minutes. Let cool on sheets on wire racks.
7. Glaze: Whisk water and confectioners' sugar until smooth. Mix in vanilla. Dip cookie tops in icing. Sprinkle with sprinkles of your choice.
Enjoy
Me and my Godfather, Solstice 1977. I always leave a few cookies out for my Godfather on a table ancestor altar— so he knows we remember.