Paterna says the number seven can be traced back to religion, referring to the Seven Sacraments or the seven days of Creation. Similarly, there isn’t a single way of looking at the meaning of the Feast of the Seven Fishes. With time, the religious aspect of it faded, but the tradition remained. Different Italian regions disagree on the “why”-some cite abstinence from “heavy meals” as a sign of respect, others quote ancient official church codes. Simply stated, on Christmas Eve, you’re supposed to eat fish. (To cut myself some slack, I quickly decided it was probably because I’m from the northeastern arm of the country, and it was not really a thing there.) But we do have our own mini-version that allegedly finds its roots in the Catholic Church. Being born and raised in Italy, at the very least I should be familiar with anything that’s considered traditional. Ironically, I had never heard of it before. Throughout the years, it found its way into Italian-American homes, and it is now a staple holiday tradition for many families of Italian descent in the United States. The Feast of the Seven Fishes-a Christmas Eve celebration that originated in Southern Italy-is a tradition in which seven different kinds of fish and seafood are served for dinner, ideally before midnight. The secret is to keep trying to master the family dishes year by year, and that’s enough for traditions to live on. It took him many years to hone down his family’s torta di ricotta, a staple dessert in the Feast of the Seven Fishes dinner. “If you’re constantly relying on grandma and grandpa to carry these out, they just evaporate.” But he warns that expecting to recreate the exact flavors only begets disappointment. “At some point, you as a direct descendant are going to have to throw up your sleeves and dig in to carry on the tradition,” he says. When Daniel Paterna wrote his book, Feast of the Seven Fishes: A Brooklyn-Italian’s Recipes Celebrating Food and Family, he wanted to prevent just that-family traditions, and flavors, fading away. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure I remembered my mom’s lasagna anymore, and I thought that maybe I should just abandon the mission. Vicenza, Italy felt even more distant, and as the ragu scent faded out the open window, so did my memories of home. It was flavorful, but something was different, and it wasn’t as comforting as I had envisioned. My lasagna would be like Proust’s madeleine.īut it didn’t work. I picked a Christmas classic in my family: lasagna. It was my freshman year of college in Boston, and to comfort that lingering-and inevitable-feeling of homesickness of the first few months, I had decided to treat myself with some authentic Italian flavors. The first time I tried to recreate my mom’s lasagna in the United States, I felt sad.
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