Elbee
Zanzibar
Member since 5/05 10767 total posts
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Italian Christmas Eve - FUNNY!
Italian Christmas
I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to
my parents' house on Christmas Eve. I thought it would
be interesting for a non-Italian girl to see how an
Italian family spends the holidays. I thought my
Mother and my date would hit it off like partridges
and pear trees. So, I was wrong. Sue me.
I had only known Karen for three weeks when I extended
the invitation. "I know these family things can be a
little weird," I told her, "but my folks are great,
and we always have a lot of fun on Christmas Eve."
"Sounds fine to me," Karen said.
I had only known my mother for 31 years when I told
her I'd be bringing Karen with me. "She's a very nice
girl and she's really looking forward to meeting all
of you."
"Sounds fine to me," my mother said.
And that was that. Two telephone calls. Two
sounds-fine-to-me. What more could I want?
I should point out, I suppose, that in Italian
households, Christmas Eve is the social event of the
season - an Italian woman's raison d'etre.
She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates
every minute of the entire evening. Christmas Eve is
what Italian women live for. I should also point out,
I suppose, that when it comes to the kind of women
that make Italian men go nuts, Karen is it. She
doesn't clean. She doesn't cook. She doesn't bake.
And she has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a
human being. I brought her anyway.
7p.m. - we arrive.
Karen and I walk in and putter around for half an hour
waiting for the other guests to show up. During that
half hour, my mother grills Karen like a cheeseburger
and cannily determines that Karen does not clean,
cook, or bake. My father is equally observant. He
pulls me into the living room and notes, "She has the
largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being."
7:30p.m. - Others arrive.
Uncle Ziti walks in with my Aunt Mafalde, assorted
kids, assorted gifts. We sit around the dining room
table for antipasto, a symmetrically composed platter
of lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, salami,
prosciutto, provolone, and anchovies. When I offer to
make Karen's plate she says, "Thank you. But none of
those things, okay?" She points to the anchovies. "You
don't like anchovies?" I ask. "I don't like fish,"
Karen announces to one and all as 67 other varieties
of foods-that-swim are baking, broiling and simmering
in the next room.
My mother makes the sign of the cross. Things are
getting uncomfortable. Aunt Mafalde asks Karen what
her family eats on Christmas Eve. Karen says,
"Knockwurst." My father, who is still staring in a
daze, at Karen's chest, temporarily snaps out of it to
murmur, "Knockers?" My mother kicks him so hard he
gets a blood clot. None of this is turning out the way
I'd hoped.
8:00p.m. - Second course.
The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way to the
table. Karen declines the crab sauce and says she'll
make her own with butter and ketchup.
My mother asks me to join her in the kitchen. I take
my "Merry Christmas" napkin from my lap, place it on
the "Merry Christmas" tablecloth and walk into the
kitchen. "I don't want to start any trouble," my
mother says calmly, clutching a bottle of ketchup in
her hands. "But if she pours this on my pasta, I'm
going to throw acid in her face." "Come on," I tell
her. "It's Christmas. Let her eat what she wants." My
mother considers the situation, then nods. As I turn
to walk back into the dining room, she grabs my
shoulder. "Tell me the truth,"
she says, "are you serious with this tramp?" "She's
not a tramp," I reply. "And I've only known her for
three weeks." "Well, it's your life", she tells me,
"but if you marry her, she'll poison you."
8:30p.m. - More fish.
My stomach is knotted like one of those macramé? plant
hangers that are always three times larger than the
plants they hold. All the women get up to clear away
the spaghetti dishes, except for Karen, who, instead,
lights a cigarette. "Why don't you give them a little
hand?" I politely suggest.
Karen makes a face and walks into the kitchen carrying
three forks. "Dear, you don't have to do that," my
mother tells her, smiling painfully.
"Oh, okay," Karen says, putting the forks on the sink.
As she reenters the dining room, a wine glass flies
over her head, and smashes against the wall. From the
kitchen, my mother says, "Whoops." I vaguely remember
that line from Torch Song Trilogy. "Whoops?" No.
"Whoops is when you fall down an elevator shaft."
More fish comes out. After some goading, Karen tries a
piece of scungilli, which she describes as "slimy,
like worms." My mother winces, bites her hand and
pounds her chest like one of those old women you
always see in the sixth row of a funeral home. Aunt
Mafalde does the same. Karen, believing that this is
something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve,
bites her hand and pounds her chest. My Uncle Ziti
doesn't know what to make of it. My father's dentures
fall out and chew a six-inch gash in the tablecloth.
10:00p.m. - Coffee, dessert.
Espresso all around. A little anisette. A curl of
lemon peel. When Karen asks for milk, my mother
finally slaps her in the face with cannoli. I guess it
had to happen sooner or later. Karen, believing that
this is something that all Italian women do on
Christmas Eve, picks up cannoli and slaps my mother
with it.
"This is fun," Karen says. Fun? No. Fun is when you
fall down an elevator shaft. But, amazingly, everyone
is laughing and smiling and filled with good cheer -
even my mother, who grabs me by the shoulder, laughs
and says, "Get this b!tch out of my house."
Sounds fine to me.
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