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Date Posted: 07:39:56 12/12/02 Thu
Author: conserv00
Author Host/IP: 1Cust47.tnt1.lorton.va.da.uu.net / 67.208.206.47
Subject: Italian Christmas

A friend sent this to me the other day. I am married to one of those EYE-Talians...
it's all true....LOL

CHRISTMAS EVE....ITALIAN STYLE

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 bitch
out of my house."
Sounds fine to me.

THE END

If you aren't in stitches by now, you don't know Italians!

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