How dear to my heart are the holidays of my youth. If my family was not at home in Rhode Island having a big feast—prepared by my paternal grandmother with the help of numerous aunts and uncles—then we were in New Canaan, Connecticut, at the home of my maternal grandmother. She was a kind, gentle woman who was always joyful and never complained. In her kitchen there were always baked goods: both homemade delights and specialty cookies from the Swiss Chalet Bakery.
In 1968, which holds particularly beloved memories for me, the Yuletide festivities began with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres at my aunt and uncle’s before we all drove back to Grandma’s house. She was busy preparing the Feast of the Seven Fishes—an Italian-American celebration of Christmas Eve—while the rest of us walked up God’s Acre for the annual caroling. The setting of this long-standing tradition looked to me like the perfect
