The Dinner of the Seven Fishes

Monica Petruzzelli, 15
New York

Christmas carols softly play on the old radio next to the Christmas tree. My little brother sits on the huge, green couch in front of the TV, watching Disney’s Christmas Carol… again. My father takes trips into the backyard, bringing in wood for the fireplace. Before he shuts the door, the cold winter’s day enters the warm house completely uninvited.

My older sister and my mom are in the kitchen, cleaning the fish before preparing it to be cooked. The nauseating odor of seven different breeds of dead fish permeates the house. I find relief by opening and closing the back door for my father, inhaling the fresh, cool air for a few seconds before returning to the hot, rancid* house.

My sister screams at me for not helping with the cooking. I hate touching fish unless it’s on the end of my fork. But, it is, after all, the famous Petruzzelli Seven Fish C hristmas Eve Dinner and all must participate. The house smells of scungilli (snails), calamari (squid), bacala (cod), s hrimp, eel, octopus, and clams as they are being cut, cleaned, and cooked.

The table is set and now I have no choice but to help with the cooking, but I wash my hands of the fishy smell with lemon juice—which stings the open cuts on my hands—every chance I get. My mouth waters from the smell of the s hrimp frying. My sister, Lisa, has almost perfected the seafood salad. The white and pink fish peeks t hrough the beautiful crystal as the lemon juice marinade drips slowly to the bottom of the bowl. Lisa wraps it up with the pretty green saran wrap and puts it out on the deck in the middle of the snow-covered table to chill. (By now there is no room in the fridge.)

I finish slicing the calamari, octopus, and eel. I find ways to delay cutting the snails, hoping my mom will do it for me—even though every year I end up doing it. Lisa and I joke around, singing and cracking little jokes here and there to lighten up the dismal work. My mother keeps going to the sink to put her hands under hot water to soothe her eczema*. The bacala boils in a huge pot of water while my sister prepares the tomato gravy for it. An enormous dish of ziti bakes in the oven, its aroma nearly overcoming the odor of the fish.

In the den, the fire crackles while my brother sings along to a song on TV. My father comes into the kitchen and steals some olives; he leaves only to return again for some cheese and escapes without my mom realizing it. When he returns to steal the finocchio*, my mother scolds him like a child. He bows his head and leaves, but comes back for more antipasta when she isn’t looking.

Inside the house, the light glows a soothing, relaxing yellow, while outside the sky is grey and dull. Just when I am glad to be avoiding the cold, my brother Joseph, still in his pajamas at four in the afternoon, begs me to take him out in the snow for a while. I humor him just to get him to stop whining. It takes an hour to get into five layers of clothes; I am dying of heat!

We finally make it out to the backyard. We make snow angels, have snowball fights, and sled down the hill in front of our house. The layers upon layers of clothes that kept me warm 20 minutes earlier are now drenched and cold. Back into the fishy house we go, peeling off each layer of clothes like a banana skin. It took more time to dress than it did to play. Now the two of us are drenched—from water or sweat, we don’t know.

The dinner is finished cooking and now we’re just waiting for the rest of the family to arrive so that we can devour it. My mom, dad, sister, and brother all sit around the fireplace, watching Miracle on 34 th Street, sipping hot cocoa. After the movie we all take turns showering, getting dressed, brushing our hair… but finally we’re ready. The doorbell rings at 9:00 to announce the arrival of my grandmother and uncle. We all run into the dining room where the fish is already on the table and attack the food the second my grandmother says, “Bon appétit*!”

The servant (that’s me) brings food back and forth, along with glasses, bottles of soda, and ice. Finally, we get to the last course after dessert (yes, there is one more course): the fruit. I eat persimmons* and Japanese apples, along with grapes, plums, and clementines.

When the dining room table is cleared and the kitchen is spotless, we all sit down on the huge green couch to watch the midnight mass at the Vatican* on TV while we say prayers and psalms in Italian. By one o’clock, my grandmother and uncle leave and we all go to sleep. Wrapped up in my warm blankets in bed, I realize I have to wait a whole year before I have to prepare the Dinner of the Seven Fishes all over again.

*Rancid: an unpleasant or stale smell or taste.

*Eczema: a non-contagious inflammation of the skin; usually red, itchy and scaly

*Finocchio: a variety of fennel whose white fragrant, celery-like stem are eaten as a vegetable; sweet fennel.

*Bon appétit: Italian for “Enjoy your meal!”

* Vatican: the home of the Pope in Vatican City, Italy.

*Persimmon: an Asian fruit that tastes like a plum and looks like an orange tomato.