I grew up between two very different Christmas Eve celebrations. On my father’s side – the Italian one – the night was a marathon of dishes and arguments over how the squid should be cooked. On my mother’s Scotch-English side, things were quieter and much more restrained: a perfectly roasted beef and Yorkshire pudding on the good china. Depending on which relatives we were visiting, the experience was night and day.
So 40 years ago, when I started my own family and began crafting my own Christmas hosting traditions, I chose to celebrate Christmas Eve the Italian American way, with the Feast of the Seven Fishes, because it was the most wonderful celebration I knew. It wasn’t just about the food, it was about the feeling: The rhythm of the kitchen, the chaos of a crowd to feed, the clatter of pans, the women – always the women – commanding it all like an orchestra.
