TROLLEY TROLLOP: HOLY CANNOLI

Dear Boston tourist who robbed the bakery for a cannoli,
I get it, dude. I totally get it.

Now, if we’re going to get technical, then yes, “technically” I have never eaten a magical unicorn wrapped in a fluffy rainbow covered in sugary stardust sprinkles. So “technically” I can’t know what that actually tastes like.

But I’m pretty sure—although, mind you, I’m no chef (unless I’ve gotten drunk first and decide that 2 a.m. is the PERFECT time to tackle Julia Child’s beef bourguignon after watching “Julie and Julia” on TNT again)—I had the closest thing you can possible get to that mythical concoction last weekend.

After three decades here on Earth (where I now know my life didn’t mean anything), I finally ate my first cannoli.

And not just any cannoli.

A cannoli from the North End.

And not just any cannoli from the North End.

A North End cannoli from Mike’s Pastry.

Now, I realize it is, if not officially a crime, then at the very least a crime of self-hatred that I have not tried one of these heavenly mixtures before now.

I mean, what have I been DOING the entire year and a half that I’ve lived in Boston that was more important than stuffing my face with pure, sinful cream … a cream so rich and wonderful I’d slap my own mother if the guy who made it told me to?

What was so important that I couldn’t take the time to partake in this Boston right of passage?

Working?

Come on. You guys read the crap I just poop out and slap up on the web.

Spending quality time with my spouse?

Ew. Gross.

Exercising?

Pffffft. The last time I tried that, I quit and was sipping a martini on the couch by the time the yoga DVD had finished with the warm-up.

I simply have no excuse. In fact, I don’t think it’d be out of line for a bunch of Red Sox-clad Southie boys to pick me up by force and heave me outside the Greater Boston limits with the cliche parting words “and STAY OUT!”.

But if by chance I am allowed to stay, I plan to make up for some lost time. Because so far my whole life has been wasted on lame confections that dared to call themselves desserts. Ice cream, cookies, cake, pie, brownies…

WORTHLESS. All of you.

Because I have now tasted a true dessert. A dessert that makes tourists hold up bakeries at knife point.

And for anyone else out there reading this who has yet to eat a Boston cannoli, I suggest getting your life and your priorities in order. STAT. Because you haven’t truly lived until you have tried something that makes you contemplate killing your significant other if it means you can finish the crumbs left on their plate.*

*Love you, babes.