(The original title of this post was âHow an Italian Cookie Became a Noise-canceling Deviceâ but then I thought, that might require too much explanation for anyone who has never gotten lost in the hypnotic moment of divine deliciousness, leaving the outside world to carry on at whatever decibel level it desired. Now, on with our story.)
Two years ago, when meeting my grandson for the first time, I was also introduced to an amazingly intoxicating Italian cookie treat that I shared with a few friends back in the Midwest.
I’d never tasted anything so divine. (And yes, I’ve tasted some amazing items, incredible cookies and habit-forming beverages.)
Its perfect exterior with a slight crispiness unearths a satisfyingly moist and  delicious inner almond flavor that hits your taste buds in a succession of waves. Seriously. It makes teenage infatuation seem as prematurely one dimensional as it often is.
The Italian Cookie, Reborn
Made in a small bakery that doesnât ship (believe me, I asked, begged, coerced, threatened along with any other tactic I thought of, they simply DO NOT SHIP), these cookies were smuggled back with us during our return trip to the Midwest.
When finally unleashed in the Midwest with some friends, no matter who I shared them with, the response was consistently universal with one word, âItâsâŠ. perfect.â
That was two years ago.
So, during a recent trip to San Francisco, I decided, enough was enough.
I had to share some of these morsels with more people who would enjoy these as much as I did.
So I did what any responsible designer does:
I designed a package for this intoxicatingly yummy gift, creating a logo, a package design and even a truck to give the proper presentation for this special creation.
(Note the side panel with the ornate “R” and the line, “The Cookie, Reborn.”)
The truck in my Ricciarelli Village of Happiness keeping all members of the community happy and satiated:
Here is the entire ensemble that accompanies the cookies:
And the logo in full detail:
