An Italian Christmas

Our family seemed to grow every year. My parents had ten children: four boys, and six girls. Being the eldest of the six girls, I was always in charge of the baking. My sisters and I would roll pastries and prepare cakes for days before the holiday. My aunts would help Mama prepare large bowls of pasta, rolled balls of seasoned venison, and a great vessel of heavy red sauce. My brothers would bring the tomatoes up from the cellar. My brother Pasqualli always gave them to his favorite, Aunt Alda. She was the roundest of Mama's sisters. Always feeding him and pinching his cheeks.

They had been gathered from the garden and stored in a room next to the wine made by Papa. He enjoyed making—and tasting—the family's wine. He especially enjoyed watching his children step on the grapes after the harvest, all covered in purple juice, it usually found its way into our hair and clothes. Mama always complained, and he would just shrug his shoulders and act as though he had no control over us. He worked long hours in the lumber mill further down the mountain. He rode his draft horse down to the mill every morning at dawn. The mill only closed the week of Christmas.

The church had asked them to close at this time. The mill and the church were the main sources of activity in the village. We did not get many travelers; Milano was three days carriage ride away. The mountains of the north could be very treacherous during the dark month of December. The men of the village took turns lighting the oil lanterns stationed at the bottom of each turn.

We now had twenty-five people in our once small house. As each of us married, Papa, our uncles, and some of their friends would build on to the house, adding a room for the newlyweds until we could find our own home. Nevertheless, a few days before Christmas we all come back to the homestead.

Mama and I were showing the younger ones how to make Pefanino biscuits. We made them in the shape of Befana, the good spirit who filled our stockings that hung over the hearth. We also made Pecorino, a special holiday cheese made from the milk of Alpena, our pet goat. My favorite was the dried figs wrapped in laurel leaves; we traded them with the neighbors for good luck. They gave us jars filled with dates and figs filled with honey and bay leaves.

As we waited for the sauce to simmer, the children ran into the living room and gathered around the fire. Papa gave each of them a small piece of paper and each got busy writing their wishes down. Then each one took a turn placing the paper on the hearth and watching it float away as they chanted a poem.

The boys brought in the rest of the evening's wood from the shed and began to wash up. The girls finished putting bows in their hair and sat at the table. After all the food was brought to the table Papa would give a Christmas cheer and we would all drink our wine.

Mama sat to the right of Papa, who sat at the head of the table. She once sat at the other end but he asked her to move since she was too far from him. It was a very long table, filled with food and drink. Children sat with their families all in a row, one large table for all.

We all ate and drank until we were content. Papa kept filling the wine glass for Mama. She always drank whenever he poured. He enjoyed teasing her as her cheeks became flushed. She wore her formal holiday dress, handmade of red velvet and white lace. A tight-fitting corset was sewn into the waist, which pushed her bust line upright to reveal an ample pair of round olive-toned pillows that fed the ten of us. Her dark hair was pulled up and wrapped in a bun with white baby's breath woven throughout.

Mama knew it was time to clear the table when Papa would stop eating the dates from the dessert tray. He would then toss them between her breasts as he told jokes and stories to the children. We all laughed when she acted as though she was embarrassed, as she did every year.

My sisters and I would clear the table. The older men gathered in the large living room to have espresso and some smoked cigars. Mama would sit at the other end of the living room with the small children at her feet. She told stories of the Folletto, a mischievous wind spirit that would knock things over and blow a girl's dress up in the air. And the Basadone, magical beings known to steal kisses with a passing breeze.

As they giggled, Mama looked up and saw Papa staring at her from across the room. The light from the fire flickered to reveal his worn, leathery skin, with deep lines from his eyes each telling a story. His hair was white and covered only the back half of his head. Suspenders framed a chest of wide girth and a round belly.

He rose from his chair and reached to the mantle. Finding his pipe, he filled it with a special blend that he bought only once a year. As he puffed, the room began to fill with the scent of wintergreen and tobacco. He turned back and looked deep into her dark almond eyes. She knew that look, and the grin that went with it.

I gathered the children and put them to bed. Each room was filled with visiting family. Some slept on blankets on the floor, as all the beds were full. I went into the room with my husband. Our two-year-old child slept in the corner of the room. It was very quiet now. One could hear the floors creak and the beds squeak. As I looked out the window to see the evening snowfall, I saw my parents, in all their years, bundled up, and headed out to the woodshed.

I slipped into bed and remembered what she told me three years ago on my wedding day. Papa had taken her to the woodshed twenty-three years ago Christmas night. The house was crowded almost as it is now. They did not wish to be quiet. He closed the shed door as Mama pulled the pin from her hair. Hair flowing down, he grabbed and pulled, and her head arched back as they kissed. As she leaned over a pile of birch wood he raised the back of her petticoats to enjoy her from behind. Clutching a spray of twigs from the scrape pile he swatted her pronounced backside until it had thin red lines across it. Tightly pulling on her hair with one hand and swatting her bottom with the other, he began to thrust into her.

Mama was used to this sort of lovemaking. She said that he was a very physical man, sometimes even primal. But we already had four boys in the family and it was time for a little girl. So she stood upright, reached around and took him out of her. Sensing his shock and bewilderment, she quickly began to stroke him to delight.

On her back she pulled him close, her legs wrapped around his waist. Pulling him down into her, they hugged, kissed, and bucked until she felt herself shudder with the warmth of his release.

On that night I finally knew why Mama always hung mistletoe over the doorway on my birthday in September. I was a Christmas baby. My name is Cristina. And I adore Christmas.