On Christmas Eve morning, a few things were usually certain in and around Westbury, where I grew up: For one, there was a line at the bakery (in this case, Cardinali Bakery in Carle Place) for Italian bread and semolina rolls. A few miles away at the fish market, there was also a line, one that had snaked out the door since early morning as people picked up mammoth orders of clams, shrimp, flounder, octopus and scungilli.

And at home, I’d be seesawing between anticipation and dread. While there was linguini in my future, there was also, lurking somewhere in the fridge, my Christmas Eve archnemesis: Baccala, salted and dried cod filets which released their salt into a pot of water over several days — but never enough salt for my fussy adolescent taste.