Christmas Eve, La Viglia, 1963, my mother a blur
of movement in the tiny Brooklyn kitchen
to follow a tradition her parents were too poor
 
to honor. Fasting for church meant no meat—
an excuse for a fish feast.
Seven fishes for the seven sacraments.
 
Clams oreganata, baked in shells to a light brown,
arancini she’d fried the day before,
fried calamari, little tentacles curled
 
in spicy tomato sauce mother canned that summer
on Long Island. Two pasta dishes, one white, one red:
shrimp scampi and mussels marinara, served
 
over a tangle of linguine. Stuffed flounder,
steamed lobster tails and crab legs,
green salad topped with crabmeat and pine nuts,
 
broccoli rabe sauté, artichokes filled
with breadcrumbs, garlic, and cheese. Around the table,
card games while Espresso perks,
 
we wait for the spread of desserts:
cannoli, biscotti, panettoni, sfogliatelle,
sing along with Perry and Bing.

Good broth will resurrect the dead.
—South American proverb.
 
Two pots simmer on the stove,
day and night creating steam, scenting
my house with cozy’s fragrance.
 
One pot with chicken necks and feet,
onions, garlic, one large bay leaf.
splash of vinegar, plus sea salt, pepper.
 
The second holds browned beef neck bones
with a little meat and cartilage, plus
onions, garlic, one large bay leaf.
 
The second day, I add baby carrots,
parsley for more flavor, let pots boil
for a lifesaver. Secret to restoring health,
 
adds lost minerals to the body, prerequisites
to healthy joints, gentle digestion. I’ve joined
the parade of chefs toward slow food, cooking
 
at the center of my home. Pantry filled with home-
canned food, throwback to shorter rations.
Magic elixir! Next comes fermentation.