A Sichuan Christmas Eve

Chef first experienced an Italian-American Christmas at my house approximately six years ago. Traditionally, Christmas Eve consists of ‘Seven Fishes’, although concessions are usually made (shrimp and lobster, etc.). As a foodie, and without childhood memories of her own Christmases, Chef was understandably looking forward to the event. I, on the other hand, although eager to share our family’s most special annual event with my newfound love, was nevertheless (as usual) paralyzed with fear at her potential disappointment. 

Chef comes from a family and a nation where food is paramount. Her grandmother cooks, her mother cooks, her childhood celebrations were filled with myriad homemade delicacies. My childhood (except for when my grandmother came to cook!) consisted of haphazard baked ziti, home-kit tacos, and perpetual fried chicken cutlets. 

While the Seven-Fish Christmas Eve Dinner is indeed a yearly departure from this mediocrity, I was still scared that my familial cuisine would be a disappointment to her. And, to be honest, I cannot remember if it was. All I can remember is my fear that it would be, that my family and myself might not be enough for her. Looking back, I am ashamed at my feelings of inferiority and embarrassment. 

But this year, there were no Seven-Fishes. Only three, very tiny, umami-packed anchovies made it into the dinner’s festively adorned eggplant side dish. The main course was the ribs of the land-dwelling pig, and even more sacrilegiously these ribs were heavily spiced not with the Mediterranean spices of rosemary and oregano, but rather the Eastern spices of cumin, white pepper and (gasp!) Sichuan peppercorns. No mushy baked ziti was to be found - not a single grain of semolina made its way through the kitchen. Plain white jasmine rice provided the base. My traitorous Italian-American hands grasped chopsticks, not a fork and knife. I topped my entree not with parmesan or Romano cheese, but a dusting of msg-laced Chinese spicy pepper powder. The closest the dinner came to the Italian boot was the night’s Spanish wine: a fruity Rioja - a small concession to the West. 

And this time there was not the slightest inkling of disappointment in the air. Wine-induced or not, the slightly charred ribs fractured effortlessly in the mouth, divulging incredibly moist and tender flesh to the nosy tongue. So enraptured by the flavor, I forwent my seemingly-Western need to remove meat from bone and place upon a morsel of rice to fill my mouth with a single convenient package of food. On this night, with an eastern grip, I tore meat right from the bone, chewed luxuriously a few times with closed eyes, and then dexterously shoveled a few grains of rice to meet the meat. 

There were no fish, no Christmas tree, no presents, but nevertheless it felt special. Chef admitted to feeling lonely at times throughout the night, the absence of friends and family on these societally-significant holidays still seeming to affect a void. We agreed a few children (‘adolescents’, we specified, not the screaming and manic type) around the table might provide a fuller feeling. And one day I would love for a Sichuan Christmas to be something we can share and pass on. Perhaps an Italian Christmas Eve and a Chinese Christmas? We both have proud heritages. Chef’s family may have more in the culinary repertoire, but what is important is appreciating each other’s customs, and what we hold dear, and ensuring that those things continue to be celebrated together into the next interracial and inter-culinary generation.