I learned to make pizzelles when I was about eight years old. I grew up in a very small town about 40 minutes outside Cincinnati, a city with a lot of German heritage. One cold winter day in early December, the lady who lived across the street from us asked my mother if I could come over to her house and make cookies with her. I never did know why she asked me to help her out. She spoke with a thick german accent, was always so nice and sweet, and I was thrilled to go. For 2 whole days I helped her mix batter, and stack the cooled pizzelles, and count them. She ran the pizzelle iron! By the end of our cookie marathon we had pizzelles stacked high on every available space in her kitchen, including her huge kitchen table. I don't remember what she was doing with all of them. I assume they were gifts to the many people she and her family knew. I do know that she made me feel special and important. I am the oldest of six children, and little did she know what welcome relief it was to escape the craziness, if only for a couple days. Or, maybe she did know, and it was her Christmas gift to me. Regardless, of why she invited me, I am so glad she did.
These are for you, Mrs. Mihalovich!
