An Italian Christmas

Blogmas Day 6

Childhood memories of Christmas were days of preparation, wonderful smells, whole days in a steamy kitchen, visits to Mr. Smith the butcher, next door to our family café, the Copper Kettle in Bruntsfield. Grandma singing in viticusar or moving her beads about, gathering her parsley from that wee vegetable patch, her pride and joy; Grandma, queen of our household and first lady in all the other homes of family too. Her pleasure at the oncoming visits from her son, maybe her nephew, and family in Loanhoad filled the house.

Chickens hung, dripping their innards, the pots bubbled and parcels full of strange foods arrived from Italy; there were dried dates and figs and bottles of Chianti wrapped in wicker. Clergy and nuns came and left with their oversized chocolate boxes, a sly envelope, maybe heartened by sherry or whisky. Ernestina, a young relation from Viticuso who lived with us and helped in the home, was giddy with the latest pop songs of the ‘50s… Marino Marini and Come Prima, Aurellio Fierro singing Guaglione.

As with most immigrant Italian families, shop opening hours dominated celebrations. There was a living to be made and, typically, we shut our shop, around midnight on Christmas Eve and opened again on Christmas morning around 10.00, only closing when there was no more business to be done. Sometimes we reopened to catch the evening trade. Family came and went, people lingered, people popped in. The table was set and reset throughout the day and Grandma was ever at the ready with a wooden spoon in hand. On special Christmases, Uncle Ernie would arrive with a guitar.

Although our Christmas meal consisted of several ‘sittings’, they were a joy… platefuls of Grandma’s meat-rich spaghetti, braciol (thin slices of beef, stuffed with nuts, pecorino, onions, parsley, raisins or sultanas and garlic), at least two roasted birds on the side, the soft, tomatoey meat, sliced into thick chunks, salad and all finished off with tinned pears in custard, bought Christmas cake or Christmas pudding. Sometimes a trifle would appear, cooked by my uncle’s wife who was partly English. The deserts were an import of course but at some point in the day, Grandma would deep fry her native pastries covered in sugar. These crustele, ciaun or ciucie, different words in different families, looked like doughnuts but unlike them, were mildly sweet, light and airy. Wonderful, soaked in coffee or something stronger. I’m still chasing recipes.

Some traditions from the past linger. The importance of family, intimacy and bonds; that sense of occasion and moment; the days of preparation and anticipation, the love, fun and silliness. We build on that past, changing and adapting in the hope that what evolves is something for the future.

Christmas with my own family, Paul and my three girls, has always been an “open plan”. No fixed agenda.

Like everyone else, feasting at this time of year is what we do. But like most of continental Europe, Pia feasting is on Christmas Eve. We start eating around 8.30/9.00. At the bells, we open a good bottle of Crémant or Prosecco and then we turn up the music as we sing our lungs out and dance. After that, we open our presents. Christmas Day starts slowly and includes more Prosecco and Panettone for breakfast. After a day of grazing on salami, prosciutto, delicious creamy cheeses, such as Gorgonzola Dolce or Dolcelatte, and maybe a fresh ricotta with pears and hazelnuts, we go to dinner in a Chinese restaurant… our next favourite food.

Last night I asked my family to name a few memorable dishes I’d cooked in past years… pappardelle in “the best tomato sauce” and rice pudding were high on the list; ham on the bone, melanzane alla parmigiana, zuppa di pesci, the antipasti and especially balsamic mushrooms in garlic, and “that mad big seashell pasta with all the ragù inside”.

With two professional musicians in my family, music has always been at the centre of any Pia party. As a student I used to gather friends together and hold carol parties which I prepared for very seriously, arranging all the different parts and of course conducting my huge choir of 40 or so singers. We always had a piano to hand and people brought guitars, recorders etc. And as a family, in a home with cellos, a piano, an oboe, a violin and a saxophone, and with the girls being singers, we carried on this tradition of making music, maybe a little less raucously, until my girls left home. We have taken visiting a karaoke club in the city centre and last year we even hired a karaoke machine to enjoy at home!

At a time of busy careers, or when the years had been over full, as this year has, going away has been a treat. In Austria, four trumpeters, a blaze of medieval colour, against a black sky, heralded the coming day, from turrets high above our heads; and we shivered in thick dry snow, staring upwards, starry-eyed in a village square on Christmas Eve. My mother and I were tearful; little Sophie-Louise 4 years old amazed. We were later warmed, singing carols to the playing of a beautiful zither and hot, winey drinks.

On another occasion, in Playa Del Carmen in Mexico, we were serenaded as we drank tequila before banqueting at the Christmas Eve celebrations in our hotel and Feliz Navidad has been our own adopted Christmas song ever since. Xcaret, an archaeological water park on Christmas Day was sheer mouth-dropping fun as the girls went snorkelling, followed by swimming with dolphins.

In Berlin, we ate a 12-course dinner from a rooftop restaurant while we awaited the wondrous bells. We drove the glorious Andalucian coastline in a minivan on Christmas 2008; fell into a traditional seafood restaurant on the beach full of malgueñans and ended up in a karaoke bar in Furengirola, singing the rest of the day away. This year we are currently preparing to spend Christmas in the sun in the glorious family-centred city of Malaga, and are looking forward to barbecued fish from the chiringuitos on the beach, and walking up to the Alcazaba to enjoy the stunning views over the rooftops to the sea.

Happy Christmas Everyone!

Let the pots bubble and the corks fly skywards. May every home be filled with singing and dancing!

Love and Joy to us all.

Anne Pia