What's a son to get "Dear Old Dad" for Christmas? Why a Leg Lamp just like the one in "A Christmas Story" starring Darin McGavin. Need a unique gift idea for the man who has everything? Why the Leg Lamp of course!
If you haven't seen the Movie, you should. You will then understand the significance of the Leg Lamp (which sold 700,000 last year.)
And where is my Leg Lamp? Burning brightly in the front window of course!
An Italian Christmas Eve is like no other. Especially back in the day when I was a kid and in the immediate generation before me. I received an email from an old Italian friend. It is meant as satire and went something like this ...
An Italian-American Young Man's Christmas Eve Dinner
I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents' house on Christmas Eve. My date was not Italian. But I was excited about showing her how an Italian family spends this most important holiday. I thought my mother and my date would hit it off like partridges in a pear tree. Right.
I had only known Mitzi for three weeks when I extended the invitation. "Our Christmas Eve Dinner is really fun and filled with great food," I told her, "and Mama and Papa are warm people, I’m sure you’ll have a good time."
"O.K," said Mitzi as she stared at me apprehensively.
I told Mama I'd invited a girl for dinner.
"She's very nice and she's really looking forward to meeting all of you." "Sounds a good to me," my mama said.
“Is she Italian?” asked Mama.
“Not exactly,” I said.
In Italian homes, Christmas Eve is the social event of the season. An old Italian matriarch’s reason for living. She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates every minute of the entire evening.
Inviting a girl to join the family for Christmas Eve dinner is a monumental decision. I should emphasize that Mitzi is not Italian. Back in the day you didn’t bring non-Italian girls home to meet Mama especially on Christmas Eve. But when it comes to the kind of women that make Italian men crazy, you had to see Mitzi. So she doesn't clean. She doesn't cook. She doesn't bake. BUT she has large breasts.
Here’s how the evening progressed.
7:00. - Mitzi and I arrive.
Mama commences to grill Mitzi like a cheeseburger on the barbecue and determines that Mitzi does not clean, cook, or bake. This is not good.
Papa is equally observant. He pulls me aside and says, "She has-a the big breasts! Too bad she’s not-a Italian."
7:15 - Twenty-two relatives arrive starting with Zio Giovanni, Zia Maria, and 5 of my cousins carrying trays of food and cookies - like Mama didn’t already have enough food to feed China.
7:30 We crowd around the dining room table elbow to elbow for the antipasto, platters composed of provolone gorgonzola, 3 types of olives, roasted red peppers, marinated artichokes and mushrooms, grilled eggplant scungelli salad, fried calamari, anchovies, .... and it goes on but no meat, of course. A traditional Christmas Eve is only fish.
When I offer to make Mitzi's plate she says, "No Thank you." She points to the anchovies with a look of disgust....
"You don't like anchovies?" Mama asks. "I don't like fish, Mitzi announces as 7 other varieties of seafood are baking, broiling and simmering in the kitchen.
My mother makes the sign of the cross. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable. With an astonished expression, Zia Maria asks Mitzi what her family eats on Christmas Eve. Mitzi says, "Knockwurst." Papa, who is still staring in a daze at Mitzi’s chest, temporarily snaps out of it to murmur, "Knockers?" Mama kicks him so hard under the table he gets a blood clot.
My evening is going downhill fast.
8:00 - Second course. The pasta with clam sauce or anchovies sauce is on the way to the table. Mitzi declines either sauce and asks for ketchup. With her eyes bulging in shock, Mama signals me to join her in the kitchen.
I remove my "Merry Christmas" paper napkin from my lap, place it on the "Merry Christmas" tablecloth and follow her into the kitchen.
"I don't want to start-a any trouble," Mama says calmly, clutching a bottle of ketchup in her hands. "But if she pours-a this on my pasta, I'm going to throw acid in her face."
"Mama, please," I plead, "It's Christmas. Let her eat what she wants." Oh if looks could kill. “Please, Mama?” As I’m the first son she reluctantly relents.
As I turn to walk back into the dining room, Mama 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, if you marry her, she'll poison you." Italian Mamas believe if you bring a girl home for Christmas Eve Dinner it means you’re going to marry her.
8:30 - More fish. My stomach is knotted like one of those macrame plant hangers that are always three times larger than the plants they hold. All the women get up to clear away the pasta dishes, except for Mitzi.
"Why don't you give them a hand?" I politely suggest. Mitzi makes a face and walks into the kitchen carrying three forks.
"Dear, you don't have to do that," Mama tells her, smiling painfully.
"Oh, okay," Mitzi says, putting the forks in the sink. As she re-enters the dining room, a wine glass flies over her head, and smashes against the wall. From the kitchen, I hear Mama say, "Whoops!"
More fish comes out. After some goading, Mitzi tries a piece of scungilli, which she describes as "slimy…like worms." My mother winces, bites her hand and pounds her chest like an old woman in the sixth row of a funeral home. Zia Maria does the same. Mitzi, believing that this is something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, bites her hand and pounds her chest. My Zio Giovanni 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 - Coffee, dessert. Espresso. A little anisette. A curl of lemon peel. When Mitzi asks for milk for her espresso, my mother finally slaps her in the face with a cannoli. I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Mitzi, believing that this is a custom performed on Christmas Eve, picks up a cannoli and slaps my mother with it.
Everyone starts laughing, even Mama who digs her nails into my shoulder and with gritted teeth camouflaged with a false smile tells me, "Get this tramp outta my house."
I didn’t marry Mitzi nor did I ever bring a girl to Christmas Eve Dinner who was not Italian.
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