My mother in the kitchen a generation later: On Christmas Eve, she removes plastic-wrapped shrimp cocktail and clams garnished with packets of lemon juice. She takes a slab of baked fish swimming in a pool of ersatz butter from its plastic foam container, all prepared by an “Ah-mer-i-gan” supermarket. She refuses to be pressed into the Italian stereotype of being a good cook and enjoying it, too. She’s the first to unapologetically admit her meals are menza menza (so-so) at best.
Read her full essay,”Three generations, seven fishes” at The Christian Science Monitor