While celebrating in Vieste (on the spur of Italy’s boot), where she had moved to follow my grandfather, her Neapolitan origins would come out with a bang from December 24 to the 25. Christmas Eve menu: “Pizza fritta and baccala,” just like in the Dean Martin song. The preparation of pizza fritta began by cooking the tomato sauce which would then go onto the pieces of dough. Then came the dough itself: rather than worry about refined yeasts, digestibility and other foodie mumbo-jumbo, grandma whipped up heavy doughs with brewer’s yeast. Then she’d put “the mass” to rest under countless layers of shawls and coverings. Finally she’d cut, shape and fry the dough – first as simple pizze fritte, to be dressed with the sauce and a sprinkling of cheese, then those stuffed with mozzarella and pepper, and lastly with floured and fried baccala (cod). On the side came “light” appetizers, like hardy salads of boiled cauliflower, mayonnaise, tuna, capers and anchovies in oil, with olives for garnish. Then came bingo, card games and the exchange of gifts, usually well before midnight, with a toast of sparkling wine and Christmas sweets to go to bed happy.
For me, the consummate Christmas dish was and still is – I demand respect for tradition if you eat at my house – Santé soup. Santé like “health” in French? Maybe, though probably not, seeing as how it’s a bonanza of triglycerides, with the classic Christmas chicken broth practically a pretext. You fry meatballs and croutons, boiled rice and savoy cabbage (prepared separately), along with cubes of mozzarella... It’s a dish made with a handful of everything, and finished with plenty of hot broth and Parmigiano Reggiano cheese. Needless to say, the kids always ate it without cabbage, including yours truly, who only began to appreciate it as an adult.