The rush of anticipation for the coming holidays and our invented, family tradition of Thankmas, is fast approaching. This occasion, created in the mid-90’s, has been our way of ensuring the whole family can be together at least once a year. Celebrating can be anytime from mid-November to late December or in the middle of July. In the glory days of the invented holiday my mother would join us.
The central focus of the gathering was (and still is) food; enough to make dining room tables groan and shift under the weight of platters and serving pieces. Consuming enormous portions of homemade, favorite dishes was expected. Mom claimed that she did not like to cook, except for maybe four dishes she had perfected with culinary acumen. Sausage Bread, chicken cutlets, eggplant parmesan and pizza rolls. All four were on the Thanksmas table, but in the telling of this story let us focus on eggplant. Melanzana for those who prefer authentic Italian.
Days before my mother arrived, I cooked, cleaned, baked, cleaned, repeat. Mom’s entrance, always dramatic, brought everything else to a standstill. Her car needed to be unloaded, clothes on hangers, wrapped in plastic bags required an empty closet. Space in the refrigerator, for her carefully curated artichokes, eggplants and sausages, required more deliberation than stringing Christmas tree lights. Our small fridge in the garage would not please her; the shelves narrow and the thermostat unreliable. Desserts I’d made in the previous days were put on the screened porch where the temperature hovered a few notches above freezing, and in the garage where one could exhale cold puffs of frosty breath.
On the day of our party the house would be decorated floor to roof. A live tree stood tall in the center of the great room with beamed ceilings and rafters adorned with mistletoe. Guests were asked to bring only their appetites, no gifts. In the early years we had a sit-down dinner which turned the open space into a banquet hall. As the guest list expanded our sit down became a stand up and anyone with a plate could graze for hours.
On the entrée table were platters of baked, stuffed clams, Shrimp Scampi, chicken cutlets-plain or baked in sauce with parmesan cheese, lasagna, meatballs in sauce, and on each end of the crystal and silver ladened tables were platters of baked eggplant.
On the left my version, dipped in egg and breadcrumbs lightly sauteed, drained and layered with sauce and parmesan cheese.
On the right, my mother’s version of the same dish, her prized recipe where each slice was dipped in egg wash and deep fried in oil, then layered into long glass trays smothered in sauce topped with mozzarella.
The tone of the evening was set. Mom would weave her way through the hungry crowd gathering fans. Which eggplant recipe was better, best, blue ribbon quality? She wanted only an opinion, nothing more. My mother was getting on in years, and time had given her the power of persuasion. Guests reluctant to cause friction plied her with Prosecco and compliments.
Once desserts replaced the main courses both ends of the entrée table had only a few crumbs remaining of the Melanzana. Afterall the fuss, some opinions required a second or third helping before deciding. Salute!
