italian christmas eve

[freeballin]

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.

7:00pm: 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 cook, clean 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."

7:30pm: Others arrive. Uncle Joey walks in with my Aunt Sophia, assorted kids and 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.

8:00pm: 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."

8:30pm: 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. My Uncle Joey doesn't know what to make of it. My father's dentures fall out and chew a six-inch gash in the tablecloth.

10:00pm: Coffee and 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 the 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.

[afterhours]

good story!

[Swimmer]

Every day of the year its momma's house. Freeballin that was a funny friekin story. Outstanding. You still seeing the chick with the huge breats?

[Karl F]

oh man... Thank You..
I got tears I'm laughing so hard...

Great Story.. this is one for the printer.. and the Italian side of the family this Christmas........... I can see this happening in my minds eye, clear as a bell, as can anyone who has had the pleasure of an Italian household on Christmas Eve....

[seabass]

I would've married her !!!!!! Great story!!!

[redneck24]

[vineyardblues]

next Sat night

vb

[piemma]

Being 100% Sicilian I can truly appreciate the story. I must have had 25 Christmas Eves just like the story. Now with my own kids grown and my parents gone we have continued the tradition except I do all the cooking.

[MoroneSaxatilis]

This is the most well written piece I have ever seen anywhere on the internet. It made me laugh out loud. We Portuguese have similar values, and Christmas traditions as Italians and in my mind's eye, I could see my family playing all the roles in that story. Old World Portuguese also agree that, if it swims, eat it. The only thing different would be less pasta and different spices.
By the way, if your family is anything like mine, I assume the decibel level is quite high at family functions.
Well done, FreeBallin'. I hope we hear more from you soon.

[Ante]

All to familiar to me!! My favorite night of the year!! Can't wait!! Great Food!! My dad is right from italy, so we do a Nice Spread, can't wait!! I'm making the Calmari Sauce this year..so pressures on!!!

Merry Christmas!!!

Ante

[Raven]

i needed that.... humorously............. most excellent !!

[MakoMike]

That's too good, and from another italian too accurate. I'm stealing it!

[JoeP]

That was hilarious.

I can appreciate some of it as I'm also 100% Italian and spend every Christmas Eve the same way with my whole family (except I don't dare eat the fried smelts with the heads on them or the whole squids that look very slimy ).

[RLC100]

Awesome story, I love all that good Italian food.

[Squid kids Dad]

Great story..I havent laughed that hard in ages...

[ThrowingTimber]

dude that perfectly pegged the chick I almost married at my parents house for christmas, 'cept she was a drinker so that gave her a few brownie points Apparently not enough though

[Surfcastinglife]

ahaha that was great reminds me alot of christmas around here, family of about 40 people (grandma had 9 kids of which 7 have kids of their own)

[woodbutcher]

That is freakin priceless! BTW, your mother's right. She'll poisin you. Wish mine had warned me.

[Thom]

Im Polish all you have to do is change some of the food and it is like your talking about our family chirstmas. Thom