A crispelli is a blob of fried dough filled with anchovies or ricotta cheese. They don’t sell them here in Jersey, but up in Lawrence, Massachusetts, where my uncle lived they’re pretty popular.
There was nothing wrong with the crispellis my uncle ate. In fact, I’m sure they tasted great. But he was old, and it was his time to go, and he just happened to stuff himself full of crispellis right before he dropped dead. This happened years ago.
My dad still says, “That’s the way to go.” No insidious cancer eating away your flesh while everyone lies about how “great you look,” and no debilitating stroke that turns you into a drooling bobblehead doll, and no Alzheimer’s disease that makes you into a vegetable who can’t tell her husband from a plate of linguini (sorry grandma, RIP).
My dad is right, death by crispelli is the best. But since Lawrence is a long way from here I’ll settle for death by chocolate.