The next entry in the Encyclopedia Mastandrea: strufoli (a/k/a "honey balls").

It's the holiday pastry that always outlasts the holidays. Everything else gets eaten -- the leftover ravioli, the soggy cannoli, the last crumbled bits of frosted cookies. You put away all the gifts. And you take down the Christmas tree. You make plans for the day off you'll get for MLK Day.

Then you eat the strufoli that someone brought to your place on Christmas Eve.

And when you eat it, you don't really want to eat it. It makes your fingers sticky, it looks like deer droppings, and you know it's just... honey balls. But you try one (out of boredom, hunger, or just plain desperation) and the next thing you know, you've eaten half the pile.

Vito brought strufoli yesterday (from Scotto's on 13th Avenue). After he handed it to me I popped it open and ate a few (I was very careful to cut myself off -- I know how this stuff works). He asked me if it was fresh.

Fresh? How would anyone know? The stuff tastes the same in mid-January as it did the day it was made in mid-December. I suspect that's related to the timelessness of its molecular structure -- or perhaps it's a mystical quality. I took it out just now, promising to have just a few. I ate many more than a few.

Once again, I've been had.