Christmas Eve: The Beast of Too Many Dishes

After having just lauded Lupa and all its gastronomic glory, I must reiterate what may be the painfully obvious to some; extraordinary food need not be acquired solely on the isle of Manhattan. As much as I enjoy the daily slalom through the good, bad, and the ugly of New York’s cavernous dining room, I have not forgotten the importance of cherishing food that is “fatto in casa”, or homemade…and there is no better reminder of this than my family’s annual Christmas Eve dinner.

Every December, all the cousins, Aunts, and Uncles on my paternal side gather for the annual Christmas Eve dinner that is widely known as the “Feast of the Seven Fishes”. As do most, our particular version of this meal has evolved over time to reflect our own tastes and traditions. Nevertheless, this marathon multi-course eating extravaganza is entirely homemade, consistently delicious, and relentlessly filling. It is an experience during which the conversation is as vibrant and exasperatingly scrumptious as the food itself…and much to my pleasure, 2007’s edition was no different.

Early afternoon on Christmas Eve, we left the lowlands of western Essex county to scale mountainous Route 23 on our way to the quaint home of my Aunt Linda and Uncle Jim (aka Capozzi North) where, like years previous, they would host this year’s “La Vigilia”. Comfortably embedded in the dense thicket that elegantly drapes the mighty hills of far northern New Jersey, you would never know that behind its serene exterior of red-door Americana, a tornado of culinary consumption quietly loomed. As sincere season’s greetings and Christmas tidings quickly gave way to unabashed hunger, like a group of vultures catching wind of a fresh kill, we stealthily descended upon the food...and so the eating began.


Initially, we whet our palettes with antipasti, on which I’ve blown my entire appetite too many times in years past. This spread always includes fresh mozzarella, sharp provolone, olives, warm bread, and roasted red peppers, a dazzling array that is headlined by my Aunt Linda’s irresistible stuffed red cherry peppers. Filled to the brim with a succulent mixture of seasoned bread crumbs, raisins, and white wine, these ripe sweet hot peppers are baked until slightly wilted on the outside while still firm and moist on the inside. These pouches of punch artfully meld hot and sweet as the soft bread crumbs gladly dissolve in your mouth. This is the perfect example of homemade food that dances not around perfection, but directly on top of it.

After enough cheese to induce permanent lactose intolerance, and too many stuffed peppers to count, it was time for my father’s classic Shrimp Cocktail. As my oxygen deprived brain failed to process my stomach's desperate “May Day”, I turned my focus to the circle of crustaceans before me. Flash-blanched then chilled, my father’s presentation is spot on offering up 5 meaty, brawny shrimp, clinging to the rim of the martini glass for dear life as they dangle precariously over a pit of homemade cocktail sauce. This feisty combination of ketchup, horseradish, and Tabasco is rich and hearty, and determined to avidly coat each shrimp thoroughly and completely. This is why my brother and I eat a dozen each, at least. This is also why I never walk away from this meal without any kind of pain.

Having devoured a pound or two or shrimp, it was time to unveil the massive primi piatto, or "first plate", which at the italian table means pasta pasta pasta. This dish, known as Spaghetti Alla Capozzi del Norte, consists of al dente spaghetti tossed liberally in a sweet and savory red gravy, thankfully accompanied by a Christmas Eve staple, stuffed calamari (pronounced 'galamahd' for you 'MANICODDY' [Manicotti] lovers). The finger-shaped calamari (squid) are filled with the same sensuous stuffing as the red cherry peppers and complement the spaghetti quite well, leaving me with no choice but to eat 2 giant bowls of this silky starchy goodness.


















While my body began to shut down, the barage of seafood did not as crabcakes and breaded flounder made their annual appearance at the table. As my family, more paced in their consumption, continued to enjoy these delights at the table, I reluctantly rested my case at this culinary tribunal and retired to the other room to get into a still supine position that would make breathing less labored and physical moving totally unnecessary. (Didn't I say if eating doesn't hurt, you're doing something wrong?)

As the enchanting aroma of stove-cop coffee permeated the house, I slowly came out of my festering food coma to rejoin the group for postprandial pleasantries. With black coffee in hand, and a large piece of cheesecake in my mouth, I realized that the while the table is our best means to enjoy a meal, it is an even better forum through which to recant the stories of our lives.

Christmas Eve 2007 was as enjoyable and uplifting as ever, making clear that this sacred supper consumes our hearts and souls as much as we ingurgitate ourselves with the food itself. Therefore, next year, as I lay prone and in pain on the floor of the living room, I’ll think not about what or how much I ate, but instead concentrate on rejoining family as they celebrate life in concert. You can never eat too much of that.