[Sca-cooks] some humor...

[Kathleen A Roberts]

i hope y'all don't mind a bit of humor, and i rarely 
forward humor to a list, but it is food humor at least. 
  when dear heart insisted i sit down and read this, i 
could only think most would scream "oh, sweet mother of 
god" at the exact time i did.  he received it from his 
 cousin, origin shrouded inthe mists of forwarding.

my apologies to those it may upset as it does have a line 
or two a bit risque.

  i can only assume an italian mother would adore me. ;)

cailte

----

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.....I was wrong!
  
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 told my mother 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 reason for living.  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 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 
cheeseburger on the barbecue determines that Karen is not 
a Catholic, Italian, 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.
Zio Giovanni walks in with my Zia Maria, assorted kids, 
assorted gifts.
  
We sit around the dining room table for antipasto, a 
symmetrically composed platter of lettuce, roasted 
peppers, black olives, anchovies and cheese....no meat of 
course.
  
When I offer to make Karen's plate she says, "No Thank 
you." She points to the anchovies with a look of 
disgust....
  
"You don't like anchovies?" I ask.
  
"I don't like fish, Karen announces to one and all as 67 
other varieties of seafood are baking, broiling and 
simmering in the next room.
  
My mother makes the sign of the cross.
  
Things are getting uncomfortable.
  
Zia Maria 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 macrame 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, relaxes & 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."
  
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.
  
Zia Maria 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 Zio Giovanni 
doesn't know what to make of it. My father's dentures fall 
out and they 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 a 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.
  
Time passes and believe it or not, 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 before I kill her."
  
  
Sounds fine to me.
  
  
THE END

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy which 
sustained him through temporary periods of joy."
W. B. Yeats
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kathleen Roberts
University of New Mexico
Office of Freshman Admissions
Administrative Asst. III
505-277-6249