“Christmas doesn't come from a store, maybe Christmas perhaps means a little bit more....”
― Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas
AUBURN, Maine — It is the most delicious time of year.
It's the holiday season and whoop-dee-do — there's food everywhere. It's at work, on television, the Net, in your home and in your face.
You'll get a belly full of turkey, fish, stuffing and steamed vegetables this season. And there will be plenty of booze for hardcore drinkers who enjoy a holiday glow.
I enjoy a glass of wine, not the whole damn bottle. Becoming an alcoholic was never one of my aspirations in life.
There is no letup to this holiday smorgasbord until after January 1.
Start thinking about hitting the gym five times a day to prevent putting a spread on your midsection.
People want to give you food during the holidays. It comes in the mail. Guests charge through your door with cakes and chocolate. I like that, but I don't like looking like jolly old St. Nick by the time New Year's Eve rolls around.
Way back when I was little tyke running amok through the neighborhoods surrounding McClure Street in Revere, my grandmother started cooking for Christmas Eve — and day — on December 1.
She was preparing a 50-course meal for an entire month. She was armed with minced garlic and plenty of olive oil, and not the crap you purchase at department stores. This stuff probably came from Italy. Remember, a majority of Italians are masters of their domain in the kitchen, and nobody prepared baccala, which is salt cod, like my grandmother.
When Christmas Eve rolled around, thousands of relatives, actually about 30, showed up with pies and pizza gaynors, and the lavish feast would last several hours until bloated guests waddled toward the door.
During dinner in the basement of my grandmother's house, the adults were seated at a huge wooden table that could survive a nuclear blast. Guests engaged in verbal confrontations that could be mistaken for verbal abuse. Politics, celebrities, sports — all topics were up for discussion at the table.
First came the pasta - usually raviolis smothered in homemade meat sauce - and then the turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, corn. Fish was also a big favorite. Scallops, shrimp and baccala were just at your fingertips.
I was surrounded by cousins and aunts who urged me to eat everything on my plate because a kid was starving in an unnamed country. I wanted to know this child's name so I could send him all that unfinished food.
Nobody told me!
We talked about Santa Claus during one feast, and I found out that Santa didn't exist, which broke my heart.
Years later, my grandmother would allow me to take a sip of Anisette or wine at the dinner table.
Those memories of spectacular feasts are over 30 years old. Nearly all of those holiday guests are dead, but thoughts of them always reappear during Christmas. I refuse to allow time to take them away from me.
The last time there was a snowstorm on Christmas day in the Boston area, I believe, was in 1969. Snow made that holiday feast that much more special for me. A white Christmas, good food, and the comfort and security of being surrounded by loving relatives — what more could a child of nine ask for?
― Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas
AUBURN, Maine — It is the most delicious time of year.
It's the holiday season and whoop-dee-do — there's food everywhere. It's at work, on television, the Net, in your home and in your face.
You'll get a belly full of turkey, fish, stuffing and steamed vegetables this season. And there will be plenty of booze for hardcore drinkers who enjoy a holiday glow.
I enjoy a glass of wine, not the whole damn bottle. Becoming an alcoholic was never one of my aspirations in life.
There is no letup to this holiday smorgasbord until after January 1.
Start thinking about hitting the gym five times a day to prevent putting a spread on your midsection.
People want to give you food during the holidays. It comes in the mail. Guests charge through your door with cakes and chocolate. I like that, but I don't like looking like jolly old St. Nick by the time New Year's Eve rolls around.
Way back when I was little tyke running amok through the neighborhoods surrounding McClure Street in Revere, my grandmother started cooking for Christmas Eve — and day — on December 1.
She was preparing a 50-course meal for an entire month. She was armed with minced garlic and plenty of olive oil, and not the crap you purchase at department stores. This stuff probably came from Italy. Remember, a majority of Italians are masters of their domain in the kitchen, and nobody prepared baccala, which is salt cod, like my grandmother.
When Christmas Eve rolled around, thousands of relatives, actually about 30, showed up with pies and pizza gaynors, and the lavish feast would last several hours until bloated guests waddled toward the door.
During dinner in the basement of my grandmother's house, the adults were seated at a huge wooden table that could survive a nuclear blast. Guests engaged in verbal confrontations that could be mistaken for verbal abuse. Politics, celebrities, sports — all topics were up for discussion at the table.
First came the pasta - usually raviolis smothered in homemade meat sauce - and then the turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, corn. Fish was also a big favorite. Scallops, shrimp and baccala were just at your fingertips.
I was surrounded by cousins and aunts who urged me to eat everything on my plate because a kid was starving in an unnamed country. I wanted to know this child's name so I could send him all that unfinished food.
Nobody told me!
We talked about Santa Claus during one feast, and I found out that Santa didn't exist, which broke my heart.
Years later, my grandmother would allow me to take a sip of Anisette or wine at the dinner table.
Those memories of spectacular feasts are over 30 years old. Nearly all of those holiday guests are dead, but thoughts of them always reappear during Christmas. I refuse to allow time to take them away from me.
The last time there was a snowstorm on Christmas day in the Boston area, I believe, was in 1969. Snow made that holiday feast that much more special for me. A white Christmas, good food, and the comfort and security of being surrounded by loving relatives — what more could a child of nine ask for?
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