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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.
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.
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
Rosa, 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?" as 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
Rosa 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,
and 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 macramι 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 Rosa 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 the
hell 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 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 canoli 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
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