The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 8: The food

“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?

The 12 Essays of Christmas, first day: The endless memories

"Christmas, in its final essence, is for grown people who have forgotten what children know. Christmas is for whoever is old enough to have denied the unquenchable spirit of man."

~ Margaret Cousins (1905- ), senior editor at Doubleday Publishing Company.

AUBURN, Maine — Christmas has a way of reviving fond and painful memories that hibernate until the yuletide rolls around each December.

Loved ones fall away with each passing holiday. There are more vacancies at the dinner table and less presents to buy. The Christmas cards are scarce. Missing loved ones have a permanent place in eternity.

All that remains are hundreds of photographs of family members who won't celebrate a holiday that celebrates family.

For nearly two decades, I traveled I-95 South to visit my mom and dad to spend a rousing Christmas Eve with nearly two dozen people. Mom is gone and my father is valiantly fighting Alzheimer's — a disease that slowly and cruelly wipes away the brain's memories.

We packed the car with gifts and made room for Anthony as we hit the road and headed to my former home in Revere, Mass. 

Now, Christmas Eve is a big deal at the Blasi household. The festivities are usually held at my sister's home, allowing my mom and dad to escape the stress of cooking for an army of friends and family. Guests would come and go as turkey, ham, potatoes, pasta, a giant bowl of sauteed corn and of course  — the shrimp linguini — were served in a buffet setting.

The shrimp linguini was my responsibility. My sister's father-in-law, Pat, a banker, taught me the secret ingredients that went into making up this sumptuous dish that kept holiday guests coming back for seconds. People came from miles round to feast on shrimp sautéed in olive oil, butter, black olives and minced garlic and onion.

When Pat passed away, I inherited the task of preparing the shrimp linguini for holiday get-togethers. I brought in a pile of it for the guys in the sports department one year. I never seen such a bunch of chow hounds gobble up my good cooking in under an hour.

So for the past couple of decades, I am the go-to guy when it comes to whipping up a mouth-watering entree of shrimp linguini.

I am that good, and some say I am the best.

Christmas Eve dinners got loud as people began quarreling over politics or worse — the Red Sox. These arguments were so heated that I thought cousins and siblings might trade blows.

When a bunch of passionate Italians get together to discuss the world's woes or the Patriots' chances to win another win Super Bowl, all I can say is look out!

You just might get a ravioli in the face when engaging in verbal combat with my family.

But when the shrimp linguini was presented to the seething holiday celebrants, things quieted down and a temporary truce was established to keep the peace.

The celebration would last for hours. There were the uncles who served in World War II and the children who tore up the joint with toy guns as the they waited for Santa to appear.

After Anthony began walking, I started running at Christmas. Toddlers have no fear when they realize they are bipeds who can turn on a dime.

I enjoyed the adults, but spending an hour playing army man or scaring the bejeebers out of the little ones on a cold New England night was a rare opportunity for this six-footer to feel like a kid again.

The guests reluctantly slipped away in the chilly night after an evening of wine and good food.

This is the time of year when I take dozen of pictures and movie clips. It is also the season when I peruse hundreds of old pictures to see who made it to the other side.

I miss them all great deal. But if I choose to succumb to a miserable depression, then I will miss the present and those precious moments with my son and wife.

After all, this is the season of hope, and I still have plenty of that — no matter what the future throws at me.

All I can say is Merry Christmas.