December 24th, the day before Christmas Day, was always magical and special for me. It certainly seemed to be the brightest morning of the year. It was a morning filled with smells of cooking that were different from any other day.

Cooking for the family get together was no easy task. It was serious and dedicated. Everyone had a job, and a dish they cooked the night before. My mother started cooking at 6 am. Her assignment was stuffed mushrooms, and man-oh-man they were good, but that didn’t stop there. She made parmesan asparagus, honey glazed carrots, stuffed artichokes, and her signature lasagna.

My mom and my Aunt Stella were the senior cooks of the house, although my grandfather was one of the best cooks that I can remember, and one of the wisest men I knew. He understood to stay out of my aunt’s way. Like father, like son – my father also shared in this tradition that was being handed down to me by example.

Every Christmas dinner we had the seven fishes which were the stars of the show, along with fresh-killed chicken soup. My grandfather always bought chicken and eggs from that chicken farm on 57th Drive. The men had their part preparing for the feast and I had my part with them. My father’s job was lifting things out of the oven and putting them back, along with reaching things from high places and making sure no one stole the television.

I hung with grandpa because his jobs were outside, and it was fun to play in the snow. Grandpa would shovel the walkway making sure nobody would slip. I would be right alongside him with my trusty kiddie shovel which looked just like the big one that he was using. Grandpa always let me throw the salt while saying things in Italian and pointing to the spots I missed.

Completing all the outside manly chores, we tried to enter the house through the rear door which was through the forbidden kitchen zone. I don’t know why we tried this every year and every year we were met with the wrath of Aunt Stella, “What’s the matter with you! You’re gonna get the floor all wet!” Blah, Blah, Blah. My grandpa would mutter something in Italian and tell me, “Come, come.”

After gaining safe entry to the house, grandpa and I would watch television with my dad who was successful at guarding the TV.

Family started to arrive slowly with their assigned dishes. My two cousins, Margie and Marie, would show up first with their husbands, Tony and Sal. These guys along with my father would always do something to get yelled at by Aunt Stella and the girls. Remember, I’m being groomed by example. Eventually we were asked to leave. Grandpa would do last minute shopping at Mr. Maggio’s deli on the corner of Grand and Mazeau. I think he planned it, because Mr. Maggio and he were from the old country and both liked wine. Tony, Sal, my dad and I had snowball fights and destroyed the walkway every year, and every year grandpa would come back and yell in Italian and broken English. Ah, the good times.

After all transgressions were forgotten we were allowed back in, only because they needed us to do the heavy grunt work of setting up the big, long dinner table and chairs, which the gals did a fine job of decorating. We always had the white tablecloth with the Christmas tablecloth over it. All the Christmas dishes were set in place and only came out once a year, along with glasses and silverware placed on cloth holiday napkins, bottles of wine and sparkling water that seemed like soldiers guarding the spots where the prized food was to be placed.

The house was filled with voices and laughter. The windows were fogged over, someone would say, “Where are they?” “They should be here any minute.”

It seemed like they always arrived at the same time. My father’s three brothers would show with my aunts and cousins. There was excitement, confusion, and a genuine happiness to see each other. All the coats were piled on Aunt Stella’s bed. The TV volume was lowered, and the Italian Christmas songs were played on the stereo. Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, and Nat King Cole set the stage for holiday drinks to warm up and to open the appetite. There was always eggnog, Cutty Sark scotch, wine, and sodas, too. I was too young to drink, but I had a plan that always worked. I would have my glass and would pour the leftover booze from glasses unattended. I was ahead of my time.

The time had finally come. Above all the talking and yelling (because Italians yell when we talk) came Aunt Stella’s shrill high-pitched voice, “Dinner is ready! Get to the table now!” Everyone found their spot, with Grandpa at the head and Aunt Stella at the other end. I was always at my grandfather’s right, my mother was alongside me, so she could police my every move, and my father next to her, so he could lean over and stop her from busting my chops. I can’t blame my mom because we always teased her, like father like son.
Grandpa would say a few words in Italian and some broken English about Christmas, God, and family. After that the dishes were passed around and filled. The compliments were made, with music in the background and a toast now and then. I always managed to get grandpa to give me more wine when my mom wasn’t looking. I was allowed a little wine in my Coca-Cola. That was their biggest mistake, ha!

After another Christmas dinner on Mazeau Street, the ladies cleared the table and washed the dishes, while the men gathered in the living room to watch TV and have important discussions about whether it’s better to take the BQE or The Hutch or whatever. It was a matter of who was right and who was wrong. This went on every year and still goes on.

I think the best part of the evening was when the ladies joined us. The mood became Christmas, and the Cutty Sark didn’t hurt. My younger cousins and I were tired of running around, getting yelled at and the leftover booze in the glasses along with grandpa’s wine had pretty much calmed me down.

It was time for everyone to go home. It was hard to say goodbye. Someone was always missing a scarf or a glove, but in the end they all made it to their cars and home safely.

Those were the best of times – when family members were all still with us. Back then, I never thought it could change, and in some ways, since it’s still in my mind, it will never change.

Merry Christmas, Everyone.

Paul DeFalco was born and raised in Maspeth.