Buona Vigilia o Buona Festa di San Silvestro
As on Christmas Eve, the phrase “Buona Vigilia” is heard throughout the day of New Year’s Eve, along with those jumping the gun a bit and saying “Buon Anno” (make sure you pronounce both Ns, otherwise you’re saying ass, and not the donkey kind). And, in Italy, you will occasionally hear or see signage saying “Buon San Silvestro”. What? Who’s he?
“December 31 is a date dedicated to San Silvestro, also known as Pope Sylvester, the 33rd bishop of the city of Rome. San Silvestro is the ferryman, the one who guides and transports souls and people, towards the New Year. However, Pope Sylvester was an important figure in the history of Christianity, as it was under his pontificate that pagan Rome gave way to Christian Rome, while retaining some rites and ceremonies. December 31, 335 was precisely the day of the death of Pope Sylvester.
It is curious to remember that, until 1700, cities celebrated the New Year when it was more appropriate for them, for reasons of politics and chancellery. In Venice it was celebrated on March 1st, in Florence on the 25th, in Paris the year began to be counted from Easter. In the Middle Ages, however, January 1st was recognized as the day of the Circumcision of Jesus Christ.”
Ouch! to that last phrase—it hardly seems worth celebrating!
With that little history lesson behind us, the Biancavilla day, for us, was suddenly free. I learned I had the day off, but not before setting an early alarm and getting ready for the day! No problem; I was planning to nap later, so we set out for our usual walk (sunny and mid-60s today), poking around on side streets and looking for new sights, coming back (seeing my Strega Nona book arrived before La Befana) and trying to nap but managing only a 20 minute snooze. Firecrackers were beginning to populate the airwaves.
All that time, Mariella and Elena were cooking, cooking, cooking. I took Ettore for a while in the afternoon so they could prep for the “cenone”. “Cena” (chay-nah) is dinner, “cenone” (chay-no-nay) is ‘enormous dinner’! Elena came up to get Ettore and some extra plates, saying they’ll start around 8:00-8:30. Joe asked Elena if people dressed up, and she said yes, but not with the long dresses and sequins as they did before Covid, when they’d go to a big restaurant.
So we toned it down from that. Joe wore a sport coat, gilet, button-down shirt, etc, and I wore my black halter dress with a cropped faux fur sweater, heels, and hose. And of course rhinestones and red underwear for good luck.
We got there just before 8:30, and Giuseppe G. and Ettore were the only ones there. We offered to return a bit later, but he said no, come in, let’s open a bollicine! He opened the Franciacorta we brought, appreciative of it, and telling us about the glass bumps on the bottom of the bottle. It is rotated every few days for five years; the bumps are like tic marks for the process. He explained that he bought Cuban cigars for later—and fireworks. As a couple of people trickled in, we toasted to the evening.
Then everyone began to arrive, along with all the food from Mariella’s kitchen (to add to what was in Elena’s kitchen)! More bubbly, more toasts, then EVERYONE SIT DOWN! We strapped our seatbelts on!
My awesome phone is losing the touch sensitivity so I didn’t get the photo of the first course, a dense spinach-ricotta ravioli with Mariella’s pork ragù. Next came the sandwich tower, a savory trifle. Then, one platter after the next: grilled or/and sautéed mushrooms, “toasted” eggplant, smoked salmon, broccoli, grilled artichokes, octopus, baccalà, olives, cauliflower polpette, three kinds of savory tortas (ricotta, herbal, salmon), and platters each of red snapper and gamberoni (like a cross between shrimp and lobster per US menus). A white langhe, a Barbaresco, and other wines. Elena looked at my full plate and just said, “Karen…,” with her eyebrows arched and her hand twirling.
Deep breath.
Now the desserts. Little cream puffs with a marmalade-mascarpone-citrus zest or a sweetened ricotta filling, orange and white ficodindia, sweet orchard oranges, Elena’s chocolate-raspberry torta, and panettone that was a colomba (an Easter almond/fruit/sugar cluster cake shaped like a dove) but in round form. More bubbly. Rhum. Grappa.
The guys went to the terrace to smoke Cuban cigars and let off their own fireworks.
Almost midnight! Other fireworks joined Giuseppe’s. Carmelo, Giuseppe G’s dad (who biked to Taormina and back today —all hills) timed the countdown. The guys came back upstairs and we went on to the balcony to watch more of the fireworks, which went on until after 1:00 am. At one point, I caught Vincenzo’s eye, made a wafting wave of my hand and said, “ahhhh… il profumo di guerra”— the scent of war. Because the air was absolutely thick with the gunpowdery smoke of it all. I quieted my environmentalist thoughts to try to savor this Italian New Year’s Eve experience.
Around 12:30, 1:00, the lentils and cotecchino came out, to eat for prosperity in the new year.
A bottle of champagne, some San Silvestro style ferrying—of dishes—into the kitchen, and we were the first to leave at almost 2:00 am.
The kids were still up.
Vincenzo saw us to the door, visibly filled with contentment.
What a night.
Happy New Year!
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