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Mangia! Mangia!
Our Taddeo cousins lived on the second floor and rather than leave the door unlocked, which wasn't safe, or climb down the long stairway to let people in, they pushed a button in their hallway that released the door lock. My seven-year-old brother and I played a game to see which one of us could open the huge entry door split seconds after the electric buzzer sounded its angry hiss. "Johnny's younger than you are. Let him do it, Antoinette," Grandma said as we got out of the car. Mom agreed, and once again my brother got his way and I got my ire up. Oh well, it's Christmas. I'll let him do it, I thought. John rang the bell, heard the buzzer and struggled to push open the door. "Nah, nah. I could have done it faster," I sang as he dashed up the stairs, anxious to play with our cousin Charlie who was just a year older than him. Next, Grandma went in and slowly climbed the long and steep stairway. I followed, lagging behind so I could help my mother. Mom's ankle muscles had been weakened by her childhood illness of diphtheria and scarlet fever and stairs were always difficult. These 30 highly varnished, blond wood steps, with a green carpet running up the center, were a challenge. Mom reached for the handrail, put her right foot on the first step and pulled herself up. "One, two, pull," Daddy joked as she repeated the procedure. "You can do it, Mom," I encouraged as she reached the halfway point. "Do you need a push, Mary?" Daddy teased. Aunt Antoinette waited patiently at the top and apologized. "I'ma sorry, Maria, that we liva so higha uppa da stairs. Come onna in." Auntie was born in the same city in Sicily as my grandmother and mother and spoke beautiful Italian. However, having come to this country as a young bride, her English though wonderfully melodic, had a strong accent. Finally at the top, we all stood at the front door greeting each other with hugs while the radiators hissed out their warmth. The savory aromas drifted from the kitchen into throughout the whole house. Grandma, Mom, Aunt Antoinette, cousins Angie and Annie went into the kitchen to put the water on the stove for the pasta. My cousin Olga, who was a just few months older, turned toward the living room where the Christmas tree took up most of the front windows. The long needled pine was decorated with colorful glass ornaments, bubbling Noma lights, shiny tinsel and wispy white angel hair. Underneath its branches nestled among the many packages, was a manger and statues imported from Italy. A lighted silver star shined over it focusing attention on the Baby Jesus and the Holy Family. I put the presents I was carrying under the tree all the while trying to see if there were any with my name on them. Daddy, who had the rest of the gifts, set his down and then joined Uncle Chester who was sitting in the big overstuffed living room chair. "Chester is home from college this Christmas," Uncle Pete told Daddy in Italian. Later I would learn college was a euphemism for where he had spent some time since Prohibition. While the men shared cigars, grappa and homemade wine from the casks in the basement, Olga and I joined the women chattering in their Sicilian dialect. "You girls finish setting the table," my aunt told us in Italian. Their dining room had an upright Kimball piano, a new television with a seven-inch screen and a massive mahogany table surrounded by heavy red velvet chairs. Tonight the table was elegantly draped with a white damask linen tablecloth long enough to leave only a glimpse of its sixinch hand carved legs. Olga and I carefully set the table with their best china, linen napkins, silverware and crystal in preparation for our meatless Christmas Eve meal. The Feast of Seven Fishes is a custom began in southern Italy and carried over to this country by early emigrants. The full meaning of the number seven has been lost over the years. Some say it represented the seven days it took God to create the World, the Catholic Church's Seven Sacraments, the seven days it took Mary and Joseph to travel to Bethlehem, and even the seven hills of Rome. But whatever the origin, Uncle Pete insisted on an uneven number of dishes and preferably at least seven of them. With all of us seated, Uncle Pete offered thanks and passed the appetizers of fried calamari rings, clams on the half shell, smoked eel, blanched snails and octopus prepared with lots of garlic and olive oil. Next Aunt Antoinette served the pasta course, Pasta con Sarde e Finoccietti (sardines and fennel) ala Milanese tossed with linguini and topped with bread crumbs browned in olive oil. One by one dishes of seafood were brought in from the kitchen and given to Uncle Pete who passed them around the table, encouraging us to "Mangia, mangia. Eat, eat." We helped ourselves from platters brimming with floured and fried baccala (cod), shrimp and smelt, stuffed whitefish and, the highlight of the meal: Red Snapper and Potatoes in Red Sauce which Olga proudly announced she helped my aunt prepare. For vegetables, Auntie served and Uncle passed asparagus frittata, peppers and eggs, stuffed artichokes and lastly, a fresh green salad tossed with olive oil and vinegar. Annie and Angie cleared the table while we moaned we didn't have room for dessert. As the coffee percolated, Uncle Pete teased her about the time Aunt Antoinette made four-dozen cannoli shells and then set them out on the back porch to cool. Their dog Lucky got hungry and, you guessed it, helped himself to all the sweet and crunchy delicacies before he was discovered. "This time," Annie said, placing a big serving dish of cannoli in the center of the table, "we reminded Ma to cool the shells in the pantry." Unable to resist the dark rich espresso and special dessert, we sat around the table and stuffed ourselves just one more time. The meal over, the men retired to the living room for an after-dinner "digestivo," Johnny and Charlie went back to playing in the back bedroom while the women cleared the table. Olga and I did the dishes, and Grandma helped Auntie put things away, while Annie and Angie sat around the kitchen table visiting with Mom about their boyfriends. The long evening had passed ever so quickly and soon it was time to head back to the South Side. We took our presents from under the tree just as Carlo and Eddy arrived to take Angie and Annie to Midnight Mass. As we stood in the doorway, thanking all and saying goodbye, we promised not to eat so much next year. We didn't know it at the time, but 1950 was the last time our two families would be together like this on the Eve of Christmas. The following spring Uncle Pete was diagnosed with a rare type of malignant tumor, which metastasized into his bones. In November of 1951, at the age of 54, Uncle Pete passed away.
Without him, the celebration of the Feast of the Seven Fishes was never the same for us or for his family. Preheat oven to 500 degrees. Season fish with salt and pepper. SautØ vegetables until softened but not browned. Add remaining ingredients and blend. Stuff fish and bake for 10 minutes at 500 degrees. Reduce heat to 400 and bake for 10 minutes per pound. |
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