My Grandparents' dining room table, at their Utica, New York home, was the place to be on Christmas Eve. Everyone was welcome – family, friends, acquaintances. If you sat around the maple table that groaned with the abundance of the traditional 7-fish meal - you were family.
Grandma and Grandpa hosted the meal in their home in Utica, New York. They were the behind the scenes producers, the main actors, and the presenters. The Christmas Eve meal was placed on the table, on a plastic cover that protected Grandma’s hand made crocheted table cloth. The plates, glasses and cutlery sparkled, while our stomachs growled, and our mouths watered in anticipation.
As a child, in the late 1950s and early '60s, I felt left out of the animated conversation because everyone spoke Italian. My brother, Jack,
and I knew that whatever they were talking about had to be juicy.
“Mangia, Mangia" Grandma or Grandpa urged - "Eat! Eat!" in Italian - and happily passed the platter of spaghetti coated only with breadcrumbs and anchovies. Each person helped themselves as the serving platter moved around the table. Like an expert, I picked out the spaghetti coated only with the sautéed seasoned breadcrumbs, leaving the anchovies to swim with each other. My father would spear those from my plate.
Homemade wine was poured and served with a sliced tangerine, as was their custom. My brother and I would each have our own bottle...of
soda! My grandparents would
load up the bottom shelf of their
refrigerator with pop for us kids.
Laughter and Italian floated about the dining room. So did the platter of bright green broccoli, sitting in olive oil with lemon wedges surrounding it. Next came the salad and the Italian celery that tasted like anise, along with Italian bread, fresh and crunchy, served along with Italian cheeses.
Shrimp, anchovies, eel, smelts, perch, haddock and calamari was served, some with a light dusting of breadcrumbs, or tomatoes, oils, garlic all in Grandma’s seasonings.
Grandma was the classic cook. She never followed a written
recipe or cookbook. Her recipes were in her head. Her seasoning technique and measurements were in her wrist and on her fingertips. She knew the right amounts and the right time to stop. If you asked her how she prepared her dishes, she would tell you in Italian. With a smile, my father would translate, “Oh, you add a little bit of this and a little bit of that.” Whatever the pinch of this or that was, Grandma was the master chef of her own five-star Restaurant.
Hours would go by. When the main courses were exhausted and the platters emptied, the table was cleared and the final course was served - homemade cannoli, with
espresso coffee. For the cannoli, Grandpa made the wooden rods and Grandma made the
dough and wrapped it around the rods to dry. Then the filling was added...a sweet, delicious end to a sumptuous meal. How we ever found the room for dessert, I'll never know, but who could resist homemade cannoli?
As guests were still savoring the dessert, Grandpa carried a bowl of apples, pears and oranges to the table. He would tilt the bowl and the fruit rolled down the table, with each person selecting what he or she wanted. A basket of nuts was passed around with nutcrackers and picks.
As 7 to 8 hours from beginning to the end of the Christmas Eve feast, I never left my chair. When I was too tired to keep my eyes open, I cradled my head in my arms on the table and fell asleep.
This particular Christmas Eve ritual has died out in my family. My grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins are all gone. It has been over 40 years that I last sat at that maple table for Christmas Eve. But I still can remember the sights and sounds and even the aroma of each dish. Every Christmas Eve when I serve my own meal to my family, I can still feel the presence of my grandparents and parents.
And while I urge my family to eat, I can still hear the voices of Grandma and Grandpa saying, “Mangia, Mangia.”
First published in Reminisce Magazine, December 2008.
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