An Italian Merry 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?
Christmas was set!
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 Antonio 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 Sophia 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 Sophia does the same. Karen, believing that this is
something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve,
bites her hand and pounds her chest also.
My Uncle Antonio doesn't know what to make of it. My father's
dentures fall out and he almost chews a six-inch gash in the
tablecloth with his fingernails.
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 a 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 a
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 bitch out of my house."
Sounds fine to me.
THE END
(If you aren't in stitches by now, you don't
know Italians!)
