Within Close Range: Calzone

Every branch of our Italian family tree made calzone.

At least what we knew as calzone: a round or rectangular, incredibly delectable, bread pie stuffed with five unvarying ingredients: ricotta, eggs, Parmesan, mozzarella and Italian sausage. 

Even though the main ingredients of calzone never varied among the families, each maker and baker added their own special touch.

 A thinner crust.

More mozzarella.

More ricotta.

A little red pepper. 

Less filling, more filling; spicy sausage or sweet sausage, but always sausage with fennel seed. 

So distinct were the differences, I could easily determine who baked which calzone with just one bite. 

I first learned to make it from watching Mom.

It was an all day affair. 

Hours of raising and kneading enough dough (in the dark days before Pillsbury’s), cooking enough sausge, cracking enough eggs and mixing enough stuffing.

Then on with the baking and making enough to feed family and friends.

Thanksgiving through New Year.

But never enough to make it to Easter.

Mom, however, took this already highly-anticipated holiday treat to another level (as she’s always liked to, especially when outnumbered).

Breaking with tradition, she’d make each calzone something far more than little slices of crusty, cheesy heaven, hot from the oven.

She made them a celebration.

With braided bread like Easter baskets.

And hand-cut wreaths on golden-brown crusts, three inches high.

Filled with savory delights and packed with love.

A crime to cut into.

A bigger one not to.

But how could she not? 

Calzone was family.

It still is.

Uniquely individual.

Sometimes a little spicy.

More than a little crusty.

And something that isn’t around often enough, ill-advised in excess, and missed when it’s gone.