Mercnbeth
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This isn't my story, but I've witness this a few times growing up - almost word for word. I remember one of my cousins bringing over a girl just like the one described, except she was trying her best to fit in - an IMPOSSIBLE task. Similarly to the woman in this story, she didn't like fish and had never been with Italians around Christmas.
Their was one dish that she loved - Calamari.This was long before the days where 'Fried Calamari' was common. After she had enjoyed her stuffed calamari course - the men at the table asked if she enjoyed it. She said yes it was great; UNTIL they told her what calamari was. Her green face went well with her red dress.
Anyway if anyone in SoCal is having a "Feast of the 7 Fishes" or knows a restaurant that serves an authentic version within 100 miles of LA - Let us know!
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? 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' 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 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 re-enters 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. If you aren't in stitches by now, you don't know Italians!!!!!
American kids: Move out when they're 18 with the full support of their parents. Italian kids: Move out when they're 28, having saved enough money for a house, and are two weeks away from getting married....unless there's room in the basement for the newlyweds. American kids: When their Mom visits them, she brings a Bundt cake, and you sip coffee and chat. Italian kids: When their Mom visits them, she brings 3 days worth of food, begins to tidy up, dust, do the laundry, and rearrange the furniture. American kids: Their dads always call before they come over to visit them, and it's usually only on special occasions. Italian kids: Are not at all fazed when their dads show up, unannounced, on a Saturday morning at 8:00, and starts pruning the fruit trees. If there are no fruit trees, he'll plant some. American kids: Always pay retail, and look in the Yellow Pages when they need to have something done. Italian kids: Call their dad or uncle, and ask for another dad's or uncle's phone number to get it done...cash deal. Know what I mean?? American kids: Will come over for cake and coffee, and get only cake and coffee. No more. Italian kids: Will come over for cake and coffee, and get antipasto, wine, a pasta dish, a choice of two meats, salad, bread, a cannoli, fruit, espresso, and a few after dinner drinks. American kids: Will greet you with 'Hello' or 'Hi.' Italian kids: Will give you a big hug, a kiss on your cheek, and a pat on your back. American kids: Have never seen you cry. Italian kids: Cry with you. American kids: Borrow your stuff for a few days and then return it. Italian kids: Keep your stuff so long, they forget it's yours. American kids: Will eat at your dinner table and leave. Italian kids: Will spend hours there, talking, laughing, and just being together. American kids: Know few things about you. Italian kids: Could write a book with direct quotes from you. American kids: Eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on soft mushy white bread. Italian kids: Eat Genoa Salami and Provolone sandwiches on crusty Italian bread. American kids: Will leave you behind if that's what the crowd is doing. Italian kids: Will kick the whole crowds' ass who left you behind. American kids: Are for a while. Italian kids: Are for life. American kids: Like Rod Stewart, and Steve Tyrell. Italian kids: Worship Tony Bennett, and Sinatra American kids: Think that being Italian is cool. Italian kids: Know that being Italian is cool.
< Message edited by Mercnbeth -- 12/10/2007 11:23:42 AM >
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