Every Christmas Eve, especially these past few years, now that I am in my fifties, it feels like past and present are merging into one.
If you are new to the blog, or my content, you may not know that I am the mom of a son who is 15—almost 16—and a daughter who will be 20 in just three days. I am also the wife of an Italian man who understands that Christmas Eve is not just a date on the calendar in our family; it is sacred. I am a kindergarten teacher who spends her days immersed in wonder, tradition, and ritual, and maybe that’s why this night still holds so much magic for me.
Growing up, Christmas Eve meant one thing: my grandparents’ house.
It meant coats piled on the bed in the spare room, cousins running through hallways, aunts and uncles talking over one another in that loud, loving Italian way. It meant the smell of garlic and olive oil hitting you before you even took your shoes off. It meant laughter layered on top of memory, and the steady, comforting presence of my grandparents—who seemed like they would always be there.
The Feast of the Seven Fishes, or in Italian “La Vigilia,” wasn’t something we questioned. It just was.
It was tradition, faith, culture, and family woven together on one long table.
Now, years later, the house has changed.
We no longer gather at my grandparents’ home. They are gone, but they live vividly in my memory—in the way we set the table, in the foods we refuse to skip, in the quiet moments between courses when someone inevitably says, “Remember when Grandpa…?”
Tonight, we gather at my parents’ house, and I am deeply aware of the gift that is. I am grateful in a way I couldn’t have understood when I was younger—to still have them, to still walk into a home that feels like my childhood, to still hear my mother in the kitchen doing what she has always done.
My mom cooks all the fish herself. Every single one.
She always has.
As you can see by the pictures, each dish prepared with care, muscle memory, and love. She also bakes the traditional Italian Christmas cookies, the ones that taste like history: anisette, honey, nuts, powdered sugar dusted over generations.
The kitchen feels alive, even when the gathering is smaller.
The past few years have been quieter.
It includes my parents, my sister, my husband, my nearly grown children, and me. No chaos. No crowd. And yet, it is still our favorite celebration. Because the heart of it hasn’t changed.
As a mother, I now watch Christmas Eve through new eyes.
I see my son, on the edge of independence, still sitting down willingly to a long meal that requires patience. I see my daughter—almost 20—carrying both nostalgia and adulthood in the same breath. I realize that they are building their own memories now, the ones they will someday describe as “How we always did Christmas Eve.”
As a teacher, I understand the power of ritual. Children—no matter their age—need traditions that ground them. And as a family, this night grounds us.
The Seven Fishes was never about the number.
It was about waiting.
About honoring where we came from.
About sitting together long enough for stories to surface.
Christmas Eve looks different than it did when I was a little girl in my grandparents’ house. But in many ways, it feels exactly the same.
The love is still there.
The food is still there.
The gratitude—especially now—is deeper than ever.
And so, on this quiet, beautiful Christmas Eve, surrounded by fewer people but just as much meaning, I hold it all close. The past. The present. The generations before me and the ones growing right in front of my eyes.
This is our tradition.
This is our feast.
And this is still home.
Thank you for taking the time to visit the blog. I hope you found this post worthwhile and that you have a Merry Christmas!
Best,
Jennifer
PS. Papa always takes pictures in front of Mama's Christmas Tree and below is one of my favorites from 2017.
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