Warmth Beyond Season’s End

There is an ongoing tradition in my large Italian American family to celebrate Christmas Eve with a gathering called the Feast of the Seven Fishes. It won’t be the same this year, but my memories bring me comfort. As a child, I entered my grandmother’s modest rancher full of generations of extended family and a thermostat set too high. Christmas decorations were everywhere. Thick in the air were conversations about politics, jokes, and strong opinions about the right and wrong ways to cook everything on the menu. I loved it. Preparations actually began weeks ahead for this feast. The work of shopping for various cheeses and sweets, visiting the fish monger, soaking the lupini beans, and baking the pizzelles and crispelles was divvied up across the family. I helped to make cookies and appetizers. 

When the day arrived, my grandmother led the effort, and we all had a part in the day. In a tiny galley kitchen, she would work to put out dishes upon dishes of pasta, seafood, and delectables. She started with platters of smelts, vegetables and cheese. My dad, uncle and cousins fried the shrimp, and I would work beside my grandmother watching the pasta pots, and scrubbing the clams to prepare them to be steamed. And when the cooking was finally complete these dishes would be accompanied by calamari in red sauce, scallops, and salted cod. 

Amongst all of this production, the kids managed to find space to run around, laughing and snacking on treats. By the afternoon, we would all sit very close to each other at one long table. My uncle always opened the meal with a prayer, blessing the table, saying “Merry Christmas” in different languages, and asking us to remember those not with us. By the end of grace, every adult at the table was in tears. “Mille di questi giorni.” This was my uncle’s way of telling us the meal could begin. 

After dinner, we sang carols. My uncles played the piano and accordion, and children rang bells. Everyone had a gift to sing in the Twelve Days of Christmas, and I who can’t sing, would sometimes get stuck with “Five Golden Rings.” Everyone would fall over in laughter. The songs continued until my uncle sang White Christmas. His beautiful voice pulled us into the end of the evening and dessert. As we ate a special Italian creme cake that is made only for Christmas Eve, we would share a few stories and quietly chat, because soon it would be time to go. 

This play lasted for years. The attendees would change because of births, deaths, marriage, divorce, illness, and friends, always new faces, but the scenes were the same. During my childhood, this tradition gave me a sense of security. Love is everywhere. Hope is realized. From the pressing of pizzelles in the hot iron, to singing carols, to lighting candles and remembering those who passed—I believed a thousand days could be like this one. I still do.