I’m half Irish and half Italian. The Irish side is responsible for my last name, my hair, and a recessive gene for alcoholism and depression. But the last ancestor from the old sod stepped off Ellis Island so long ago, that we have no Irish family traditions. The only Gaelic I know is a curse. Singing “Fairytale of New York” in the Dublin House on 79th Street is as close to Irish as I get. (Thanks, Kieran, for the link.)

The Italian side dominates our holidays. My mom is Italian. Her father was raised in Abruzzi before emigrating to Canada and America.

For Italians, it’s all about Christmas Eve. We get dressed up in our best clothes. The cousins fly in from Florida. There’s a sickening mound of presents that are unwrapped that night.

And then there’s the food. We have 12 types of fishes in honor of the twelve disciples. My grandfather took food very seriously. He was the maitre d’ of the Waldorf in the 50s. After he died, the second generation stopped doing it all. Now the grandchildren have taken it up as a mission to see if we can make 12 different kinds of fish appetizers. Salmon spread. Crab cake. Tapenade. Lobster tail. Shrimp cocktail. … We like a challenge. Mom makes a tuna and olive mariana sauce also, just in case anybody is still hungry.

It’s all about excess, joy, and style.

I’m taking the rest of the week off. The flu has reared its ugly face. There’s a cousins dinner tomorrow. On Thursday, we’re taking the kids on the train into the city for a party at Steve’s work and for viewing the city splendor. On Friday, I’ll be making fish cakes and smoked salmon dip. Too much going on to feed the blog this week.

I hope you all have a joyous holiday. For my non-Christian friends, enjoy the empty theaters. I’ll be back next week.