When you open the door, be prepared for the sweet scent of hazelnut biscotti. Come into the living room to see the crèche beneath the tree, and have a cup of eggnog lavishly laced with rum. Welcome to my world of Christmas memories in an Italian family!
Christmas Eve in the Viscardi household meant a sumptuous seafood meal including linguine with clam sauce, shrimp cocktails and tiny fish with a weird name — smelts — which were oven-fried and drenched in butter. So therefore delicious.
After Mass on Christmas Day, we feasted on manicotti with homemade sausage, followed by biscotti and honey-dipped wine cookies. Later came coffee with anisette and roasted chestnuts with a little cross cut on each one.
I’m sure my folks hoped their gifts would make lasting memories for their girls, but only a handful stand out. Like that perky ballerina doll with satiny skin and blond ringlets.
She was pretty, sure, but also a bitter reminder that I was too fat to fit into a tutu. I sequestered her away in the closet and lavished my love on a stuffed Pluto dog, who didn’t challenge my worldview.
Most of all, people play a starring role in my memories. Invariably we had a huge table set with the china we got with green stamps from the grocery store. My mother, wearing a cheery Santa apron complete with tiny bells, ran back and forth from the kitchen while everyone called out, “Grace, come sit down!”
The cast also featured aunts, wearing glittery corsages and sipping Manhattans, and uncles sharing tips on cars and cigars. And don’t forget the motley crew of cousins wreaking havoc at the kids’ table. One of the heftier uncles doubled as Santa, but the little cousins didn’t know that.
My sister and I fought most of the year, but at Christmas, we declared a truce. In fact, we pooled our resources and headed to Woolworth’s to procure what we believed was real diamond jewelry for our mother.
Our suspicions were confirmed when she saw the necklace and smiled as if we’d given her the stars and the sun. As for my dad, we pondered long and hard, and usually ended up with a pungent shaving lotion or a bright tie.
In college days, I prided myself on getting all my shopping done early because I hated crowds. I would be smugly wrapping gifts two days before Christmas when my father would sidle up to me, slip me some money and whisper, “Get something nice for your mother.”
Off to the mall I would rush. The mobs would engulf me, and I’d wonder for the hundredth time why he didn’t ask me sooner.
Looking back now, of course, I realize such things don’t matter. The crowds, the rushing, the stress, the presents, all of that, just dwindle away.
What counts? The folks around the table — and the baby in the crèche, who brought us all together. Most of all, the hope that one day we will all feast again around a heavenly table — and I’ll hear those cherished words, “Grace, come sit down!”
