A Unique Memory of The Christmas Eve Feast - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
Dr. Ed Iannuccilli, Columnist
A Unique Memory of The Christmas Eve Feast - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
For weeks, we anticipated Christmastime in a frenzy. It was the time for shopping, cooking, and pausing on Christmas Eve for La Vigilia, the vigil awaiting the Christ child, concluding on Christmas Day with gifts and more food.
What I remember of that evening was a sumptuous feast. Lots of people were eating lots of food, and the smell of fish was pervasive throughout our three-tenement house. I was occasionally distracted because I was fast-forwarding through the evening, anticipating what I would find under the tree the following morning.
GET THE LATEST BREAKING NEWS HERE -- SIGN UP FOR GOLOCAL FREE DAILY EBLASTI remember my grandmother, mother, and aunt scampering from the pantry to the kitchen to the people-infused dining room table in my grandmother’s second-floor tenement. The room was aglow with light flickering from the chandelier and twinkling candles in the windows. Adults squeezed elbow to elbow. The kids had their station in the nearby parlor. But a memory that stands out for me was of Dad.
His enthusiastic and unique request for The Dinner was pickled pigs’ feet. Yes, you read correctly; pigs’ feet, brined. He loved them, and Christmas Eve was the only time anyone yielded to his request. They wanted him to enjoy, if but once a year, his wish. Yes, though it was pork he was eating, it was acceptable enough for the meatless evening. It was his only time and only chance to have them.
My mother tolerated it because it was Christmas. “Peter. You know it’s not fish.”
“Of course, I do, Anna. But I love them. And they are close enough to fish. They’re white. Don’t they call this evening La Vigilia in Bianco?”
“Oh, get off,” she replied, and Dad submitted. He was getting his wish. ‘Get off’ was Mom’s common retort when she preferred not to discuss anything further.
Dad sat in the corner of the kitchen with a mopine tucked in his collar. He opened the jar and pulled out one foot at a time to devour his delicacy. Delicacy? I turned away as he ate things with toes. Mom stopped, turned, and scowled, again.
My grandmother weighed in. “Livva him alone. Let him hav-a whatta he wanza. Itsa Christmas.” They did. And he savored.
In the gleaming dining room, the women presented their dishes . . . smelts, snail salad, red and white pasta, baccala, etc., and stood back with hands clasped and faces set alight, adding more glow to the room. They watched, sitting to eat now and then as they had more to do. Off to the kitchen, they scampered, trundling back and forth . . . talking, laughing, smiling, proudly wiping their hands with multicolored, handcrafted Christmas aprons, presenting their dishes with the style of a Maestra. Beautiful.
Christmas Eve. It was memorable enough for a kid who had his mind on other things.
Itsa Christmas.