I didn’t inherit this tradition. I built it. Some families pass down recipes like heirlooms, a grandmother’s handwriting still visible on stained index cards, dishes appearing year after year like clockwork. But for me, Christmas Day was always an open canvas. I wanted something that felt ours—something my kids would grow up remembering long after the toys lost their shine, something they would talk about decades later when they’re grown, gathering their own families around the table. So I started with Cioppino.

That first year was rough. My fiancé brought home piles of raw fish that all had to be cleaned, and by the time everything was ready, the whole day had nearly slipped away. I remember staring at crab legs that looked like they could pinch me back, shrimp with shells and legs still attached, clams that needed scrubbing. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was determined to figure it out. Garlic hissed in olive oil, tomatoes melted into a broth that smelled like the sea, and slowly, clams, shrimp, mussels, and crab found their way into the pot. The steam fogged up the windows as the broth bubbled, as if the kitchen itself was exhaling. When we finally set it on the table, steam curling up like part of the celebration itself, I realized—this was worth it. It didn’t matter that it took forever, that crab legs left a trail of shells and napkins scattered across the table, that we were still cracking claws long after dessert was supposed to be served. The mess only kept us sitting there longer, together.

The kids leaned in, curious. They tore off hunks of bread, dipping, slurping, laughing with that wide-eyed joy only Christmas can bring. Their cheeks were pink from the heat of the broth, their fingers buttery and slick with seafood, their eyes darting between the pot and the platter of bread as though Christmas itself might end if they didn’t get another dunk. And right then, as my fiancé and I watched our two families blending into one around the table, we knew: this was the tradition we’d keep. The pot was more than dinner—it was glue, stitching us together in ways no store-bought gift could.

Now, every year, the pot goes on as the wrapping paper settles and the house exhales. The tree lights still twinkle, half-hidden under a blanket of new toys, but the real centerpiece becomes that big pot of cioppino bubbling away on the stove. These days, I mostly supervise with a glass of wine in hand, rolling the supplì while my fiancé takes on the fish. The broth bubbles slow, the windows fog, and soon the table fills with bowls brimming with the sea. It’s never exactly the same—sometimes the crab steals the show, sometimes the shrimp—but that’s the beauty of it. No two cioppinos are alike, because no two Christmases are alike. The stew flexes with what’s fresh, what’s available, what feels right that year. But the ritual stays the same: the pot, the bread, the laughter, the mess, the memory.

In many Italian homes, this meal is part of the Festa dei Sette Pesci—the Feast of the Seven Fishes. A tradition rooted in faith and celebration, where families prepare seven different seafood dishes on Christmas Eve to honor the wait before midnight Mass. Fried smelts, salted cod, calamari, baked clams, shrimp scampi—the lineup varies by region and by family, but the heart of it is always abundance, devotion, and togetherness. I may not follow it to the letter, but in my own way, cioppino has become our feast. A single pot that holds all the abundance, joy, and connection that holiday traditions are meant to carry.

And there’s poetry in that, because cioppino itself has immigrant roots. Born in San Francisco, it was created by Italian fishermen who would “chip in” whatever was left from the day’s catch to make a communal stew. Clams, mussels, shrimp, fish—it didn’t matter. The point was feeding each other, making something greater than the sum of its parts. It’s an Italian-American invention, a dish that tells the story of families leaving home but carrying flavors with them, adapting to what the New World seas had to offer. Maybe that’s why it feels so fitting for my family, too. I didn’t inherit this exact tradition, but I borrowed, adapted, created, until it felt like ours. That’s the immigrant story in food form: something old, something new, something delicious that holds people together.

Every time I make cioppino now, I marvel at the way the house fills with its scent. Garlic, tomatoes, and wine create the base, but it’s the seafood that transforms it—briny clams popping open like presents, mussels releasing their ocean perfume, crab legs peeking out from the pot like ornaments, shrimp curling pink against the red broth. The broth itself is a wonder, rich and layered, tasting like the ocean and the earth all at once. Bread is non-negotiable—thick slices to dunk and soak until they collapse under the weight of tomato and garlic. The kids now race each other to see who can tear off the biggest hunk, who can mop up the most broth, who can crack the crab legs fastest. And I sit back, glass of wine in hand, and watch. This is the tradition they’ll carry forward: not just the stew, but the sounds, the mess, the joy of a meal that refuses to be tidy.

Because it’s never just about the stew. It’s about giving my children a memory that belongs to them. A holiday table that smells like garlic and ocean air, that tastes like warmth, that feels like home. It’s about the laughter when someone inevitably sprays broth cracking a claw, the stories told over the pot, the way the kids fall asleep that night still smelling faintly of butter and sea. It’s about teaching them that tradition isn’t only something handed down from the past—it’s something you can choose, something you can build, something you can claim for your own family.

So no, cioppino wasn’t something I grew up with. But it’s what my kids will. They’ll tell the story one day of how Mom decided Christmas dinner should smell like the ocean, how Dad always insisted on too much crab, how the tablecloth never survived the night without stains, and how somehow that was exactly the point. They’ll remember the warmth of the broth, the glow of the tree, the way the house felt full, alive, and stitched together by a pot of stew.

And to me, that’s the real magic of Christmas: the traditions we choose, the ones we make our own, the ones that turn into family history right before our eyes. Because when I set that pot down in the middle of the table, I’m not just serving dinner. I’m serving connection, memory, and belonging. Cioppino has become our story, our ritual, our feast. And every year, as the broth bubbles and the windows fog, I’m reminded that sometimes the most meaningful traditions aren’t the ones you inherit. They’re the ones you create with your own two hands, wooden spoon in one, glass of wine in the other.

Buon Natale.

Tips for Making Cioppino Part of Your Own Tradition

Over the years, cioppino has taught me patience, flexibility, and a whole lot about how seafood actually behaves in a pot. I’ve burned garlic, overcooked shrimp, and once nearly gave up when clams refused to open. But that’s the beauty of making a dish year after year — you get better, you learn its rhythm, and eventually it feels like second nature.

Here are the lessons I’ve gathered, the ones I’d pass along if you were in my kitchen with a glass of wine in hand, spoon in the other:

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1. Start With the Base

The broth is the soul of cioppino. If you skimp here, everything else falls flat. Begin slowly — onions, garlic, maybe even a little fennel if you want that sweet, anise-like undertone. Cook them gently in good olive oil until they’re soft and golden. This step isn’t about speed — it’s about coaxing flavor from humble ingredients.

When it’s time to add liquid, reach for a bottle of dry white wine. Let it sizzle, let the alcohol cook off, and watch as it pulls up every caramelized bit from the bottom of the pot. Only then do I add crushed tomatoes and broth. That’s when the kitchen starts to smell like something worth gathering around.

Tip within a tip: don’t forget the seasoning. A pinch of red pepper flakes for warmth, bay leaves for depth, maybe even a strip of orange peel if you’re feeling adventurous — it brightens the whole stew.

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2. Layer the Seafood

Cioppino is as much about timing as it is about ingredients. Seafood is delicate, and nothing ruins the moment faster than rubbery shrimp or mushy fish.

The sturdy players go first: clams and mussels. They take a while to open, and their juices enrich the broth as they steam. Next come firm white fish like halibut or cod, cut into big chunks that won’t disintegrate. Shrimp, scallops, and calamari wait until the very end — just a few minutes in the bubbling broth is all they need. Crab legs or lobster tails? They go in last, right before serving, because they’re already cooked and only need warming.

Think of it as choreography. Every ingredient has its cue, and when you get the timing right, the whole pot sings.

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3. Use What’s Fresh

This is the most freeing part of cioppino: there are no rules about exactly what seafood has to go in. Historically, fishermen in San Francisco would “chip in” whatever was left from their day’s catch. That means cioppino was never about perfection — it was about possibility.

I’ve learned to let the market decide my pot. Some years, mussels steal the show. Other years, the crab is irresistible and worth every penny. If clams are tiny and sweet, I’ll buy double. And if the shrimp look sad? I skip them. That’s the beauty — cioppino flexes with the seasons and availability.

It keeps the dish alive, evolving, different each year — just like Christmas itself.

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4. Don’t Skimp on Bread

If the broth is the soul, then the bread is its best friend. Thick, crusty loaves of sourdough or rustic Italian bread are non-negotiable. They’re not just a side; they’re part of the ritual.

Bread soaks up the broth in a way no spoon ever could. You dunk it, watch it collapse under the weight of garlic and tomato, and eat it dripping over your fingers. In my house, the kids race to see who can mop up the most broth, tearing off hunks so big they practically need two hands.

It’s messy, it’s primal, and it’s the most joyful part of the meal. Because cioppino isn’t meant to be delicate — it’s meant to be lived in, with sauce on your napkin and crumbs on the table.

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5. Keep It Messy

One of the first lessons cioppino taught me is to stop worrying about keeping it neat. There’s no neat when crab claws are flying, when shrimp shells slip from buttery fingers, when someone inevitably leans a little too far over their bowl and splashes broth across the tablecloth. There’s no neat when mussel shells pile high, when lemon wedges are squeezed with abandon, when the air smells like garlic and ocean brine and you’re too busy laughing to notice the stains spreading across the fabric.

And honestly? That’s the beauty of it. Cioppino forces you to let go of appearances. To put aside the idea of perfect plating or quiet, polite bites. Instead, you put out a roll of paper towels in the middle of the table like a centerpiece, set out big bowls for discarded shells, stack extra napkins within arm’s reach, and let the chaos unfold. The clinking of crab crackers becomes part of the soundtrack, the shell bowls fill like trophies of the evening, and the tablecloth ends the night looking gloriously wrecked.

The mess isn’t a problem to fix — it’s part of the memory. The butter on your hands, the tomato stains on your shirt, the broth splattered near your wine glass — they’re proof that you leaned in, that you lived the meal instead of just eating it.

Some meals are for show, arranged in tidy portions and Instagram-perfect frames. Cioppino isn’t one of them. Cioppino is for living — loud, messy, abundant, joyful. The kind of meal where no one wants to leave the table, because even in the chaos, or maybe because of it, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

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6. Make It Yours

Every family that makes cioppino puts their own spin on it. Some like it spicy, others keep it mellow. Some use fennel, others don’t. Some add squid ink for depth, others keep it bright and red.

In my kitchen, it changes a little every year. Some Christmases I’ll throw in extra heat, other years I’ll finish with fresh basil or parsley for brightness. What matters isn’t following a recipe to the letter — it’s creating a pot that feels abundant, generous, and right for this moment, this family, this year.

And that’s the secret: cioppino doesn’t have to look the same to become a tradition. The ritual — gathering around the pot, cracking shells, dunking bread, laughing through the mess — that’s what stays constant. The flavors flex, but the memory holds.

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7. Invest in Bowls Just for Cioppino

One of the best decisions I ever made was buying bowls just for this dish. Not fancy china, not delicate porcelain — but big, sturdy bowls deep enough to hold broth, seafood, and hunks of bread without feeling cramped.

It may sound simple, but it changes the whole experience. When the bowls come out, everyone knows what’s coming. The kids see them and immediately start asking if the crab is ready. My fiancé sets them on the table like an announcement: it’s cioppino night.

Over time, those bowls have become part of the tradition. They’re scraped with spoons, stained with tomato, and always clinked together in cheers before the first dunk of bread. They don’t match the rest of my dishes, and that’s the point — they belong to the stew, to Christmas, to us.

If you’re making cioppino your tradition too, buy the bowls. Choose ones that can handle the heat, that feel good in your hands, that invite you to linger. Because cioppino isn’t a meal you serve in something dainty. It needs space — for broth, for shells, for abundance.

And someday, when my kids are grown and setting their own tables, I hope they’ll remember those bowls as much as the stew inside them.

The Heart of It

Cioppino will never be the kind of dish you serve with starched napkins and polished silver. It’s rustic, unruly, and a little chaotic. But that’s exactly why it works. It forces you to slow down, use your hands, talk, laugh, linger.

So if you ever make it for your own holiday table, remember: don’t aim for perfection. Aim for joy. Let the broth bubble slow. Let the seafood fall where it may. Let the bread soak until it drips. Let the table get messy. Because in the end, it’s not about the pot at all.

It’s about the people gathered around it.