The Holiest Cannoli Is Inside a Convent
The Holiest Cannoli Is Inside a Convent
I went to this Sicilian bakery three days in a row.
Ciao! I’ve been traveling alone in Sicily for the last five days and, wouldn’t you know it, I’ve become obsessed with a convent.
On my list of things to do and see in Palermo, at the very top was a visit to I Segreti del Chiostro, a “secret” dolceria, or confectionary, inside the cloister of Santa Caterina d'Alessandria. “Everyone gets the cannoli,” said my friend Naomi, who lives in the city. “But you should get the little boob-shaped pastry instead.” Noted. Boob pastry.
After our delicious but very filling lunch together, I walked around the botanical garden to make room in my stomach for some dolce and then stopped by the bakery on my way home before it closed. “Le minne di Vergine,” I said in a terrible accent, pointing at the “Virgin’s breasts” and holding up a numero uno. A shortcrust pastry filled with ricotta cheese and covered in sweet icing with a candied cherry on top for a nip, it is shellacked and jewel-like, begging you to take a bite.
Booby secured, I cupped it in my hands and brought it over to a gorgeous garden in the center of the complex, where tourists sat around in uncharacteristic silence, enjoying their desserts while listening to the soft trickle of a fountain among the roses. I wasn’t expecting to like mine that much—chocolate is more my thing—but holy… Naomi was right.
The icing was hard and cracked as I bit into it, but the shortbread crumbled in my mouth. Having been in the fridge, the filling was cold and thick, and I eventually discovered some mini chocolate chips, thank heavens. Eating such a perfectly balanced treat, I felt compelled to look up at the sky, finally noticing my surroundings. Above the garden were the chambers of the nuns. They looked tiny and humble, not unlike a lot of New York City apartments, but they were covered with windows. I wonder if you can go up there, I thought, before crumpling my paper doily and heading towards the exit.
The next day, I couldn’t stop thinking about the boob pastries. At this point, I hadn’t eaten a fruit or vegetable in days and feared I might be getting scurvy. But I had to have one. The power of the boob pastry compelled me. I was short on time because I had some work calls in the afternoon, so I decided to forgo lunch and just have dessert as my second meal. It wouldn’t be the first time, and when in Rome...
The line was longer at lunch hour, but after about 20 minutes, I was in. A woman at the door with a walkie-talkie gave me a number like I was at the DMV or a deli counter, and as I waited for mine to appear on the screen, a blonde-haired man standing next to me asked (in English) if I was traveling alone. I nodded. “Would you like to split a cannoli with me?” he asked. “They’re so big, and I want to try the cakes too…”
I paused for a moment. Did I want to split one with him? I watched a woman fill a cannoli shell the size of her forearm. “Sure,” I said. “That sounds good.” He was sweating and seemed relieved.
“Are you from here?” he asked as we waited for our turn. I laughed.
“No, I’m from New York,” I said. “Where are you from?” Hamburg. He was in Sicily to kite surf. For some reason, this struck me as extremely German, and I got the ick. “Thanks for the cannoli,” I said after he paid for it. “Enjoy.”
In retrospect, this was a God-tier meet-cute, probably orchestrated by a higher power. “When he offered to split his cannoli with me, I just knew…” I imagined saying at our wedding. But I wasn’t feeling flirty. I was in a convent, after all. God’s plan for me was not to marry a German kite surfer who couldn’t handle a whole cannoli but to get a cannoli instead of a boob pastry. And my God… For a moment there, I believed in something.
I was scheduled to leave the next day for Ortigia, but woke up early to go back again to see the nuns’ rooms. I needed to know more about the people who gave me such a heavenly dessert experience. This time, I went to the church first, which literally made me go, “Woah,” when I walked inside.
Upstairs, where the nuns lived, was decidedly less glamorous. The last sister moved out in 2014, but the monastery of Santa Caterina had been occupied for about 700 years prior. Founded in 1311, thanks to the generosity of a noblewoman from Palermo and her mother, the building grew over time to occupy an entire city block. The nuns who lived inside were completely secluded, passing desserts (and other objects) through a lazy-Susan-like wheel, which you can still see today, to the outside world.
Back in the day, every convent in Palermo, of which at one point there were 21, is said to have sold a specialty dessert. The recipes were secret and passed down orally from one generation to the next so that no one could steal them. (My grandma, who was Italian, would also purposefully leave ingredients off her recipes.) This helps explain why they are so good: They’ve been perfected over centuries by women who thought only about God… And dessert.
I wasn’t allowed to take any photos of the rooms where the sisters lived, but you could tell from the tiles where women had walked over and over and over again: from the door to the bed, to the dresser, etc. Inside, they’d left a few props, including a cane, a pair of reading glasses, an hourglass, a sewing basket, an embroidered nightgown, and even a lock of braided hair—a “symbol of renunciation to the world,” according to the guide.
Of course, there was a part of me that wanted to cut off all my hair and renounce myself at that very moment. Traveling alone and living out of a suitcase, I felt less vanity and need for possessions, or so I told myself, and the idea of a uniform and a routine appealed to me. On the wall was a typical schedule: Wake up at 5:30. Meditation. Breakfast. Singing. Studying. Lunch. At 13:15: “SILENZIO PROFONDO.”
As I made my way up to the roof, where you’ll find incredible views of Palermo, I looked down and noticed some gunk on the elbow of my snap cardigan, maybe eggplant from dinner the night before. “FUCK!” I said out loud, my expletive ringing throughout the staircase. I sighed. No, I am certainly not cut out for life in a convent—one full of delicious desserts but devoid of men and material things. It was a nice idea while it lasted, though.
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What a delightful travel diary!!!!
I'm proud you went to a church without me