Growing up, we had an Italian feast for Christmas every year with lasagna being the portata principale.
My dad would drive all over Rockford to procure authentic spices, cheeses and oils. He didn’t only shop at “big” grocery stores like Hilander and Logli. There were little markets like Cacciatore’s and the 320 Store he’d visit for fresh meats and produce. One December morning he came home with an armload of stringed boxes containing fresh, homemade cannoli. He said he bought them from an old apron-wearing Italian lady out of her house in southwest Rockford. He called her his “cannoli dealer.”
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Mom was the Christmas chef. Over the course of several days, she lovingly prepared the meal. Special pots and pans appeared like guest stars in her kitchen. The tall copper-bottomed sauce pan was the dazzling matinee idol. The broiler pan she used for the meatballs was the comedic sidekick. The cheese grater was the foil character: a “Nellie Oleson” character used for grating several pounds of cheese.
There were several others “actors” and Mom directed her huge cast and crew with remarkable ease, artistry and precision. Italian cooking is not necessarily tidy. There’s potential for a lot of splatter, but her kitchen was neat and organized; and her sink always seemed to filled with fresh, hot, sudsy water.
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Christmas Eve meant pickins. Pickins were select cuts of Italian meats simmering in homemade sauce. There was no ceremony for this meal — we literally just picked the pickins whenever we felt like it — but the meal felt sacred nonetheless.
Christmas afternoon meant antipasti, an enormous board layered with with a sheet of huge romaine leaves of romaine lettuce then topped with delectable Italian cheeses, cured meats, olives and other veggies. It was lightly drizzled with olive oil. Maybe even sprinkled with some red vinegar, salt and pepper.
Christmas Day was when the lovely silverware and the gorgeous gold-plated dishes appeared. The plates were works of art, literally. I think I remember some kind of bucolic courtship scene painted on the plates. The silverware came out of a secretive velvet-lined wooden box that was kept tucked away in the buffet. Over the years, the table was set with different linen napkins, crystal goblets, tablecloths and taper candles.
Christmas dinner was served with salad, garlic bread and chianti.
Christmas night meant we could finally eat the cannoli. The strings were loosed from the boxes and I swear golden light shone from the tube shaped glory! I remember pretending to be stuffed, but I wasn’t. I would sigh with relief when there were enough for each of us to have two cannoli. I loved cannoli and I loved that my sister Rani sometimes called me “Cannoli.”
Christmas late night meant staying up to watch HBO after everyone went to bed so I could heat up the “leftover” lasagna and (to the tune of Silent Night) “eat in heavenly peace.”
Christmastime provided the ultimate comfort food. The comfort started the second I saw my parents sitting at their kitchen table, writing out the grocery list several days before the holiday. The comfort continued when I would see the pantry and fridge populate with new ingredients. And the comfort continued when the house would fill up with the aroma of the sauce and meatballs and melting cheese. It continued when I saw my mom and sister draping long rectangular half-cooked noodles over the “matinee idol” as the prepared to layer the lasagnas. It continued when I stuck my hands in the hot, sudsy water “for fun.” It continued when my dad volunteered to eat a “dirty meatball.” It continued, it continued, it continued. And really, the comfort continues in the form of warm memories.
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Rani, my brother Dave and his wife Joan still cook these authentic meals every year. This past year, Rani and Mom started preparing the feast together at Mom’s house. My sister Phyllis does it from time to time, too, with a vegetarian twist. I would love to tell you that I, too, continue this glorious tradition but trust me when I tell you I do not have the attention span to cook like that. There is a reason my husband Jesse calls me “Mrs. Burnpots.”
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Several years ago, Rani started gifting lasagnas to my family every Christmas. She sends over salad, bread, grated cheese and pickins. She also gifts us an enormous platter of fresh baked Christmas cookies a few days ahead of the big day. Jesse has been calling her “Cookie Dasher” for years and at some point, usually early in December, when he’s hungry, he’ll suddenly shout down at me from his upstairs office, “What’s the deal with Cookie Dasher?! She makin’ lasagnas?!” Then I’ll go up there and insist on speaking quietly about this matter because we mustn’t hex our good fortune with unnecessary yelling.
“God, I hope so,” I tell him in as comforting a voice as possible. “But we have to wait and see.” Then I’ll go back downstairs and make him some ants on a log.
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All of Rani’s masterpieces arrive at our front door in a manner reminiscent of “Ding Dong Ditch.” We rarely see her when it happens. It’s the best and it’s hilarious and it’s awesome and it’s heartwarming and yes: Jesse and I know we are spoiled rotten!
I don’t have any pictures from my childhood Christmases and I don’t have any good photos of Rani’s lasagnas. You can see one of her lasagnas in the photo at the top. It’s surrounded by sides, which is the food I prepare for the holiday. The photo shows how the Kuntz family “traditionally” eats but it doesn’t do the lasagna (that was devoured within 30 minutes) justice.
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Most meals I serve are on charcuterie boards. Even at Thanksgiving, there is no portata principale. Just sides. They’re delicious, just not exactly “traditional.” At least not yet.
Thanks for reading. This was a long one! -Cannoli
Constance Kuntz 