Ah New Year’s: a time of self reflection, goal setting, and most importantly: consuming the traditional four food groups of the Post household. See, for some, especially those of my generation, New Year’s means going to a friend’s house and hanging out in their basement, presumably dancing along to the latest jams and going to bed with a night full of memories. For me, though, New Year’s is the epitome of family time.
Each year, after Christmas, my siblings, parents, and I would load up our car and travel eight hours north to Wellesley, Massachusetts to visit my grandparents. Here, we would spend our days playing in the snow, baking, creating stories, making trips to the town dump, and, if we were lucky, making the special haul to the Natick Mall for gift exchanges. Meals ranged from a bagel spread after church, to Linguini and Clams, or Chicken Parmigiana for dinner. Belts are promptly loosened and sweatpants are the preferred pants for the week.
Our time spent in Massachusetts is some of my favorite to look back on as a young adult. Among these memories is the joyous routine that we followed when the clock struck twelve on New Year’s Eve. First, the good: home made pizzas personalized by the youngin’s.
Then, the bad: the anticipation — and cravings in between dinner and the fabulous dessert. Books are read. Champagne and Manhattans are enjoyed. Naps are taken. All that can be done is done in order to strife off the desire for decadence that is just out of reach. Alas, it’s time for the sweet: fried pieces of dough with powdered sugar atop the sizzling, warm, carb balls of joy. Ah, zeppole (pronounced zepp-la) how we adore you. Finally, the salty: as the clock strikes midnight, the family piles into the kitchen surrounding the island where two plates are resting. The first: rye bread. Seemingly, nothing could be wrong… it’s just bread, right?! Wrong. Adjacent to the bread rests a small bowl full of the daunting, ill-smelling, pickled herring. We’ll save the rest for later. Suffice to say, “chasers’ ‘ are necessary.
The Good: Homemade Pizzas
As the year winds down, the Post family is known to leave the morning of NYE with balls of dough rising on the kitchen island. Here, the dough sits for hours as the family goes about its business… shopping, napping, trips to the dump (there are NEVER too many trips), and more. By the afternoon, the family is welcomed back by booming stacks of dough atop the counter. Soon, the time comes that each grandchild is ushered into the kitchen to choose the perfect ratio of tomato sauce, cheese, and whatever other toppings the child desires.
From Nana’s childhood, pizzas were made every year by her mother (Rosie). More on Rosie’s cooking later in the month. Nana took the tradition and ran with it, as it remains the norm for whoever is in the area. As the NYE dinner moves back and forth from Nana and Grandpa’s house to Aunt Margaret’s house, the menu stays the same. Pizzas remain a staple in the family: a certain beauty in finding the “individual” in the collective movement.
The Bad: anticipation
We adore food in this household. As such, the knowledge of more good food coming with some rather feisty young ones (and slightly impatient Gen X’ers) can overwhelm one’s ability to follow social cues with logic. There is a four hour window from dinner until midnight.
Hour One: the adults open a bottle of champagne. The first pitcher of Manhattans has been finished. The children, those that can, have been put asleep to wake to the New Year.
Hour Two: the young adults have started to get restless. The parents, too. Champagne isn’t cutting it. Someone swipes a cookie from the cookie jar.
Hour Three: the wheels have fallen off the bus. Young Adults aren’t used to nightlife. Family stories are being brought up. Has anyone mentioned a chair recently? Perhaps the color red? Ask your relatives, folks. As the hour closes, Nana and a few others sneak off to the kitchen to quietly start going to work. The Crisco is melted. The pieces of dough are cut and risen. Nana has her tongs.
Hour four: as the sweetness of Zeppole gets revealed, the ever growing fear of herring becomes paralyzing… One can only hope that all works out.
The Sweet: Zeppole
I learned very quickly in this family that tradition is important. So important that no New Year’s Eve party could top how the Posts throw down in Eastern Massachusetts. This year is no exception. As the clock nears midnight, I smell boiling Crisco in a pan as Nana Post prepares Zeppole — bite sized pieces of pizza dough fried with powdered sugar on top. We have Nana’s Italian traditions to thank for that. Loved through Southern Italy, this dessert is a treat originally eaten while celebrating the feast of Saint Joseph. The traditional recipe includes a cheese filling, however our rendition does not. As soon as the clock strikes twelve, the family sprints to the kitchen to reach the well sought after Zeppole. Powdered sugar soon covers Grandpa’s sweater vest, lips, beard, and pretty much all of his clothing. The balance has been restored. All is right.
The Not-So-Sweet: Herring
And then comes the salt of the sea. A sweet kiss from pickled herring. Gross. Bleh. Not an ideal situation. But alas, in the same way we swallow our pride, we swallow our herring. A Polish tradition, this eating hails from my Grandpa’s side of the family. Pickled herring has always been a part of Polish tradition, as it is in abundance in Poland. The preparation of pickled herring is another Polish tradition, but one that is not often done by the Posts. Once a year doesn’t kill us, and as they say it makes us stronger. Chasers of champagne and more zeppole are in hand. This hardship brings us closer, and good luck for the New Year.
About the author:
Post is a senior at Oberlin College graduating with a Bachelor of Arts in Comparative American Studies and French. They are a two year captain of the field hockey team, Slow Train barista, and loves a good rom-com. They’re grateful for the time spent in the E!D!S!L! learning clusters and wish the best for their classmates and teachers.
