Camille Bavera knows how to make a tiramisu. So does her dad, and her nonna, and her great-grand nonna. Pull up a chair as she talks you through this intergenerational dessert – you’re in safe hands.

I have two full sisters, three stepsisters, and two stepbrothers. Two grandmothers and two parents. Two pseudo-step-parents and seven cousins. My mum and dad are no longer together, and there’s not a lot of communication between the different sides, let alone countries, they represent. Most of these people live in Italy, and just a few immediate members maintain an address in the United States where I grew up.

However, the one thing that transcends all these tenuous relationships (especially at Christmas), no matter who’s refusing to do that additional grocery run (they’ll eventually give in)? The one thing that will, without fail, make an annual appearance at everyone’s Christmas dinner? The simple, unpretentious tiramisu.

With millions of makes and views worldwide, it’s no longer just a dessert from Treviso, in Northern Italy. Like any famous dish, there are several conflicting theories as to where it came from. A personal favourite is that it was first made by a Trevisan woman who ran a brothel in the city centre. In the region’s dialect, ‘tiramisu’ or tireme su quite literally means ‘pick me up’. After all, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. 

“The last step is only necessary if it’s just me and my dad with whom I can consume two-thirds of a pan in one sitting”

Today, it’s a cultural staple, and Instagram users have posted about it 4.6 million times, giving it a small chocolate chip on its shoulder. The most widely known maker of the recipe is Nonna Silvio, who, during the Covid-19 pandemic, amassed about two million Instagram followers.

Clearly, the dish reigns supreme.

It’s a Nonna recipe; both my nonna and Nonnas everywhere. It’s also a Zia [aunt] recipe, which means the Nonnas have passed it down to their children, my aunts, who make it for their families’ most Sunday lunches. My aunt Zia Monica’s version is particularly spectacular.

It’s pretty similar in ratio, size, and ingredients to other tiramisu recipes. Maybe I’m biased by the memories of long, leisurely lunches, followed by crostata di frutta o marmellata, a comparatively light tart, topped with whatever fruit happens to be lying around. This recipe makes enough for eight very full Baveras or two hungry people with spoons.

Tiramisu is a classically proportioned dessert and consists of coffee-soaked savoiardi [ladyfingers] biscuits, mascarpone cream, and a sprinkling of cocoa powder on top. It therefore makes sense that more than several people use the same recipe and claim it as their own.

The preparation is very easy. The hardest thing about it is waiting for it to set properly in the fridge in between constructing and consuming.

First step: Divide and conquer the eggs, beating the yolks into frothy submission. Sweeten the deal with some sugar (just ‘some’ sugar), add the mascarpone (Galbani brand only) and turn the remaining whites into snowy mountains. And unless you’re skipping the gym to make this, forgo doing it by hand, and plug in the electric mixer.

Next, mix the yolk mixture with the white mountains, and fold.

Soak the savoiardi biscuits in espresso, about a cup of espresso, mixed with liquor (more often than not all we have in the household is brandy, so anything fun and not too fruity will do fine).

Now, if you’ve ever played with LEGO as a kid, or Lincoln Logs (aka Roy Toys), then you understand the basic structural components of tiramisu. Start building the layers, savoiardi first, in your most beautiful dish, and make sure it’s small enough to fit only three-fourths of what you’ve prepared. You’ll consume the other quarter while building, and no one appreciates only a partially full dish. Trust me. If not, see below and learn from my mistakes.

The last step is only necessary if it’s just me and my dad, with whom I can consume two-thirds of a pan in one sitting. Sometimes we’ll get really crazy and make it twice in one weekend, just because we feel that we’ve gotten the hang of it.

You see, I not only get my Italian heritage from this man, but also my insatiable appetite for dessert, and my tendency to linger near the fridge when I should absolutely not be anywhere near the fridge, the handles of which are covered in my sticky fingerprints.

If we quickly go back to 1985-ish when my father was a teenager, he attended a dinner party at which there was also a large pyrex dish of tiramisu. This pyrex was clear glass, which meant the dessert was on full display, protected only by a lid. So, naturally, he and his partner in crime, Roberto, consumed the entire thing – handful by handful – spoons by the wayside. Within minutes, the dish was soaking in the sink, and no party attendees were any the wiser. The work of masters.

I am not this ‘good’ or stealthy, and due to his open-concept kitchen, it’s quite easy to hear me fishing for silverware or opening and closing the fridge door up and down the house.

This is all to say that if you happen to find yourself at home alone during a Sunday afternoon, or Friday night, and are suddenly feeling Italian (or hungry), go ahead and make it. But a warning: if you’re not with your dad (or your mom) at this time, put a lid on it, and insist you bring it over to someone’s supper club immediately. Otherwise, you’ll regret your tiramisu baby the morning after, or someone may come after you with wild accusations, such as: “You ate my entire pan of tiramisu.”