Christmas Eve comes later this week, and I’m actively prepping my stomach for the feast ahead. I view holiday eating in the same light as competitive sports, and this particular day represents the Super Bowl of gluttony. Chocolate chip cookies, olive and cheese antipasto, lobster-loaded Cioppino over linguini, shrimp cocktail, rice balls with pancetta, fried flounder, asparagus drenched in hollandaise sauce, tiramisu, eggnog, wine – IT’S ALL GOING IN. What can I say; I do it for the tradition.
Raised in an Italian family, I was taught to cherish the 24 hours leading up to Christmas. In fact, it was as beloved as the actual day itself. I lived in Pittsburgh, Pa for all of my childhood. On the 24th of each December, my relatives would gather at my grandparent’s place. Aunts, uncles and cousins traveled from as far away as Virginia to officially kickoff the celebration.
In my mind, I can clearly see my grandparent’s Cape Cod style home on Saltsburg Road – a tan brick house with brown steel awnings. Every year, a dusting of snow seemed as dependable as the holiday’s arrival. My pap always overdid the old 20-volt Christmas lights. They hung from the shrubs and roof – looking like massive hand-painted rain drops. Red and green, they appeared as large as runway lights by today’s decoration standards.
As you headed up the stone walk, the sound of conversation streamed from inside like an informal greeting. Dodging a few slick ice patches on the porch, you’d open the door to an immediate waft of warmth – melded with the aroma of pan-fried something.
Of course, I knew exactly where to go by the sound of kids playing in the basement, their tiny sugar rushes coming to a head. Passing through the dining room to congregate with my crew of rug rats, I’d usually give a quick hello to all of the adults – at mom’s request.
They’d be sitting around the table drinking wine and beer. My uncles would talk about the last Steelers’ game and share inappropriate jokes. My aunts told stories about the kids, swapped recipes and yelled at my uncles for sharing inappropriate jokes. All the while, a record player belted out the old standards. Greats like Sinatra and Bing Crosby sang of White Christmases, Happy Holidays and Silent Nights.
Usually, a box of cherry cordials convinced me to visit with the grownups a bit longer than expected. Still, there were games to be played elsewhere. I’d grab a handful of the candies and plan my escape to the action below. In all of my briefness upstairs, though, I never once darted passed the spread without first taking notice. It deserved some pause for admiration.
The platters of fruit, cookie trays and plates of cheese made it hard to distinguish the poinsettia pattern on the plastic tablecloth. Somewhere in a pile of pistachio and roasted peanut shells sat a bowl of chestnuts with a lone cracker. Various salamis and breads rounded out the smorgasbord. And these were just the appetizers.
After rummaging through a dish of peppermint leaf gumdrops, I’d wrap up the formalities with the adults and go to the basement. There, I’d put together a wonderful show for my cousins. Hey, I’m the consummate performer. I usually opened with a good 20 minutes of tormenting my older sister. Then, I’d segue into a few Pee Wee Herman impressions, and close with my father telling me to “Settle down!”
No matter how good my comic timing, though, the food always took center stage. My act was cut short by much greater powers. The wonderful smell of tomato sauce would drift from the kitchen and funnel its way through the air vents above. Piped into our underground clubhouse, it ultimately lured us kids to the second floor.
We’d bolt up the stairs, tripping over our own feet. Mom – who often prefaced her words with “What did I tell you about running through the house?” – would stop us in our tracks. “Go get washed up. We’re eating in a few minutes,” she’d say. In our eyes, that translated to “You’ve got plenty of time to spare.”
We’d make our way into the living room. Just by coincidence, that’s where the Christmas tree towered over a mound of presents. Our gift radars buzzing on fudge, we’d scope out the scene. There was one focus here: Find a tag labeled with your name, then zone in for the shakedown.
Using a time-polished formula that combines box size, weight and rattle ability, we’d calculate exactly what the package held inside. “You kids get away from there and go play in the cellar,” my pap would blurt out. Looks like our toy predictions would have to satisfy us until after dinner.
Around 4:30 p.m. or so, parents would start calling us to the table. Aunts stacked heaping helpings of everything onto plates much too small for the load. The solution: pile upwards. The menu consisted of bread soup, homemade pastas, seven different kinds of seafood (broiled, buttered and fried), roast and more. The entire dinner usually would last a couple of hours minimum. For an eager child ready to tear into some wrapping paper, the wait could be unbearable.
During the meal, someone almost always spilled something or laughed until they cried. My pap would sit at the head of the table, silent and proud. Maybe he just enjoyed watching the chaos of an Italian dinner. The room was so loud, it’s a wonder anyone could hear the person across from them. But they did.
After much noise, and a third round of coffee, the adults would gradually start clearing the table. Well, sort of. The main meal would be removed and replaced with more fruits, cheese, nuts and sweets. Inevitably, some of these “munchies” would wind up in the living room as the family opened gifts – just in case you were still hungry. By the end of it all, kids were exhausted, stuffed and ready for Santa’s big visit later that night.
When I got a bit older, my grandmother died. We began to hold these Christmas Eve celebrations at aunts’ and uncles’ houses. We upheld the tradition for some time before it became less and less possible for everyone to show. Cousins grew up and started families of their own, folks moved to new cities, my pap passed on – everyone just kind of quietly accepted that all good things must come to an end.
Today, my memory lives in the tastes, sounds and togetherness of the time – all with great detail and fondness. While I’m not standing there in my grandparent’s kitchen, I can still smell the baked rigatoni; hear everyone laughing loudly, and see that wonderful table of food.
We at Bon’s Eye Marketing wish you a holiday as comforting, enjoyable and cherished as those Italian Christmas Eves.
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