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. So 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.

7:00 p.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."

7:30 p.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 bake, broil and simmer 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.

8:00 p.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."

8:30 p.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.

10:00 p.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 
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.

That's Christmas Eve Italian style.