Roccocò

Roccocò are not broken. They are meant to be this hard. Americans taste them and assume something went wrong. Nothing went wrong. You are eating a cookie designed to last through the Christmas season, from early December until Epiphany, sitting in tin boxes on sideboards, waiting to be dunked in something warm and sweet.

The name may come from the French rococo, for their decorative appearance, or from the Neapolitan word for rough. Both explanations suit them. They are rough, they are ornamental, and they are unapologetically themselves. You do not bite through a roccocò. You dunk it in vin santo, espresso, or whatever sweet wine your family has opened for the holidays. You wait. You let the liquid soften the dense crumb. Then you eat.

The spice blend is distinctly Neapolitan: cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and a whisper of black pepper. The almonds should be coarsely chopped, visible in every bite. The candied citrus is not optional. Without it, you have made something else. What you keep out is as significant as what you put in, but what tradition demands, you must include.