A Holiday Table Reflecting Faith and Kinship
The air is thick. It’s a humid, fragrant cloud of garlic sizzling in olive oil, of briny clams steaming open, of yeasty dough proofing in a warm corner. This isn’t a restaurant kitchen, though it possesses all the focused intensity of one. This is Nonna Emilia D’Angelo’s Brooklyn basement on Christmas Eve, the command center for the Feast of the Seven Fishes. It’s a ritual as sacred as any midnight mass.
The tradition is an old one. It’s rooted in the Roman Catholic practice of abstaining from meat on the eve of a holy day. So Italians, and later Italian-Americans, turned to the sea. But what began as a simple act of piety has evolved into an epic, multi-course marathon of seafood that tests the endurance of both the cook and the diner. Seven courses. Sometimes more.
“It’s not just about the fish,” Emilia D’Angelo states, her hands deftly shaping dough for fried calamari. “It’s about memory. Each dish has a story, a connection to a person or a place we’ve left behind.”
Emilia, at eighty-seven, moves with an economy of motion honed by decades of practice. She is the keeper of the recipes. Her son, Marco D’Angelo, serves as her loyal, if sometimes harried, sous chef. His primary domain, he jokes, is “procurement and relentless garlic chopping.” He’s the bridge, the one who remembers the feasts of his childhood and now works to preserve them for his own daughter.
That daughter is Sofia D’Angelo. She’s home from college. While her peers might be chasing last-minute corporate holiday parties, Sofia is elbow-deep in flour, learning the precise texture of the baccalà fritter batter. There’s a tension in her work, a loving negotiation between heritage and the present moment. Sofia respects the canon, but she isn’t afraid to propose a new verse.
This year, it’s a scallop crudo. A whisper of an idea. It’s a dish that relies on pristine, raw ingredients—a concept far removed from the slow-simmered or deep-fried preparations of her grandmother’s repertoire. Marco D’Angelo watches the exchange between his mother and daughter, a familiar dance of old-world skepticism and new-world ambition.
The Baccalà is everything.
The centerpiece for the D’Angelo family has always been the baccalà, or salt cod. It’s a humble ingredient, a fish preserved in salt for longevity, that requires days of soaking and rinsing to become palatable. It’s a process that can’t be rushed. Emilia D’Angelo speaks of how her own mother would start the soaking on December 21st, a non-negotiable date in the household calendar. The cod, she explains, is a testament to patience, a food that “demands you slow down” in a world that won’t stop accelerating.
But this isn’t just one family’s story. It’s a scene replaying in countless homes across the country, a powerful expression of cultural identity that resists the sanitized, one-size-fits-all version of holiday cheer sold in big-box stores. It’s a noisy, messy, and deeply personal affair. It’s kinship forged in the kitchen, a bond strengthened over simmering pots of red sauce and shared plates of linguine alle vongole.
Sofia finally gets the nod from her grandmother. A small one. The crudo can be served, but only as an extra, an eighth dish added to the traditional seven. Sofia’s scallops, sliced paper-thin, are arranged on a chilled plate. She finishes them not with parsley and garlic, but with a sprinkle of sea salt, a drizzle of high-quality olive oil, and a dusting of pink peppercorns. It’s a quiet addition to a loud and boisterous meal.
The family begins to file downstairs, their arrival announced by stomping feet and loud greetings. The long table is set. Wine is poured. Emilia D’Angelo carries the first platter out of the kitchen, a mountain of golden, crispy calamari. She places it in the center of the table, and for a moment, the chaos subsides.
