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I take it you are not married to a Sicilian. by Atticus
Too bad for you. Your eponym, Saint Monica, patron saint of mothers of brilliant sons, bows her head in embarrassment.
Christmas Eve is the Feast of the Seven Fishes to all Nablidons and Sicilians, although Linda hasn't done it in a big way for years since we began our other tradition of family dinner on Christmes day. Hence, she can be excused since this year her planning includes a sit-down dinner on Christmas Day for 28 assorted relatives. (Happily for me, this year's acceptances include several cousins I haven't seen in a long while who are usually away for Christmas.) More happily for Linda, our two sons will be home and for a Sicilian mother nothing, I mean nothing, beats two sons being home for Christmas. It's a great thing too for an Irish father, but for a Sicilian mother? Fuhgettaboutit. To give an example, I can easily imagine that heavenly day when Linda and the Blessed Mother are chatting. Linda will say, "yes, your Son was pretty advanced, but I'm sure my sons walked on water well before they were 30."
See link, Edible Brooklyn, for a fun article on the feast of the seven fishes featuring one of Linda's culinary gods, Marcella Hazan, and Marcella's ignorance of the feast, attributable to a childhood spent north of Naples. And so, from the article, my suggestions for the Christmas Vigil dinner, la sette pesci: grilled calamari and octopus, rock shrimp aioli, linguini with clam sauce, branzini, corvina ravioli, Arctic char crudo with Sette Anni pepper.
Grazie, amico, grazie.