But not just over any cannolo. If you give me the frozen kind, I will kindly give it back. If you give me the lumpy variety, I will invariably give it back. If you give me a soggy shell, I'll probably sock you in the jaw. I don't play games when it comes to pastry.

The Italians understand this. They don't mess around with their cannoli either. When they get an itch for the sweet, sweet nectar of the cannolo, there's only one place to look: down. Down passed the Arno, down passed the Tiber, down passed the Sarno and down passed the Straights of Messina they go. Sicily, the three-legged island, makes one hell of a cannolo. And everybody knows it.

The Sicilian cannolo is so renowned and so well loved that whenever an Italian makes a trip to Sicily, they are obliged to bring back a case full of cannoli and other pastries for the unfortunate souls who had to stay north. When I went to Sicily, my girlfriend, Carmen, a native Napolitana, told me that if I didn't bring her back a case of cannoli she wouldn't let me into the house. This was a serious issue -- there are bats outside my house. So I didn't tempt fate. I brought her the cannoli and all was well. (However, a friend of hers that didn't get any cannoli wouldn't talk to her for a week.)

Why the Sicilians can make the cannolo so much better than everyone else is a mystery to me. I've asked Carmen a number of times when we've walked past pastry shops in Sorrento with mountains of cannoli, biscotti, pinoli, sfogliatelle, babba and cassata smothering the windows why this is the case. "It's simple," she told me. "They make a better filling." But why? "They use ricotta. We use cream." But if everyone likes the Sicilian cannolo more than the rest, why doesn't everybody just make it like the Sicilians? "Because they have their ways and we have ours."

Intractable, obstinate, obdurate, silly pastry chefs! Why must we quibble over such insignificant concepts as pride and tradition? The fate of pastries is in our hands! This is not a time to be selfish. This is a time to reach out to those with a higher knowledge of the cannolo and say, "Teach me, oh wise one. I want to know the way of the cannolo." And the wise one would say, "It's the ricotta, stupid!"

Enlightenment. Ricotta is the way. But you must follow the right path because making the chunky ricotta smooth and creamy is like turning water into wine, metal into gold, or a tortoise into a Nijinsky ballerina. It's an alchemist's gift. And few know its secrets, which, as the bird said to the bee, is unfortunate. When it comes to any type of pastry, I always live by the infinitely wise saying: "The more the merrier."

You might ask, "How difficult can it be to mix ricotta and sugar into a creamy filling?" And I would tell you, "More difficult than it is to mix it into a lumpy filling." But instead of being the professor who merely tells you how it is, I'm going to show you.

As a fun beach activity on the North Carolina coast, we picked up some pre-made cannolo shells, followed by all the ingredients that the box called for to make the filling. Back at the house, we surrounded ourselves with ricotta, sugar and chocolate chips. We threw the ricotta and sugar into a bowl and whisked. And whisked. And whisked. After a few hours in the refrigerator, the filling was ready to fill. So we filled and filled and filled. But when it came to marvel our masterpiece, we found it lumpy and runny, like an egg yolk with chicken pox. Scraping the filling into the trash, we ate the shells like cookies.

The shell is just as important as the filling. If you get a bad shell you might not even get to the filling. I once had a cannolo that tasted like it had the shell of an egg roll -- you know, the Chinese appetizer with the fried shell stuffed with shrimp and rice and all that other good stuff. If you're going to be eating that shell with won ton soup, may the Holy Cow blesseth thy union. But, if you put that shell around my ricotta and chocolate chips, I promise you there will be riots on Sesame Street. And yes, I know how to get there. I bought a map.

And now I'll offer you a map as well. No, not to Sesame Street -- this one is much better. This one contains the secrets to the best cannoli in Sicily. I offer this map to you with my humblest opinions. While my knowledge of where to find the best cannoli in Sicily is by no stretch of the imagination infinite, it is more extensive than that of someone with a sane mind. The credentials: while traveling around in most of Sicily's major towns I made sure to have a cannolo for breakfast every day. Instead of a gelato after dinner I ate cannoli. As a mid afternoon snack: cannoli. Mid morning: cannoli. Lunch was usually accompanied by, if not entirely composed of, cannoli. Yes, I have problems. So, in no particular order:

Taormina -- Off of Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, instead of taking the street to the Greek Theater, take the one to the right of it. There is a pasticceria called Minotauro on the right, next to a wine shop. Go there and be happy.

Lipari -- Via Vittorio Emanule, coming from the main port, walk past the upscale pasticceria on the left that has cannoli with pistachios. Go a little farther and again on the left there will be another pasticceria. This is the one you want. The cannoli are indescribable.

Cefalu -- In Piazza del Duomo, with your back to the Duomo, the bar on the far left corner has exquisite cannoli. Just make sure the barrista doesn't cough on it.

Palermo -- On Via Principe di Belmonte there is a nice walking section with upscale shops. Facing via Roma, with your back to the port, Antico Caffe Spinnato on Via Principe di Belmonte will be on your right. Outdoor seating is available during the summer, as well as a Billy Joel-ish pianist. The cannoli are cool and refreshing -- just don't eat one before dinner.

As for me, stuck in Piano di Sorrento, there is some relief. A salumeria down the street gets an almost-weekly box of cannoli on Saturday mornings from a pasticceria outside of Palermo. They may not be fresh, but, hey, it's better than nothing.

Note: Throughout this article I have used the Italian spelling to differentiate between one cannolo and two cannoli. In America we just have "cannoli": "I would like one cannoli. No, wait, I want two cannolis!" So, while saying you would like one cannoli is technically wrong in Italian, it's accepted in English. It just depends on what language you want to speak in an Italian restaurant.