I have clocked up more Christmases in Italy than in Ireland after 25 years living in Pesaro.
Christmas - Italian style, or actually Sicilian style as played out in Rome where my husband’s family live - took some getting used to at the beginning.
We would go to Rome on Christmas Eve when the festivities begin with a fish-based dinner. Nonna would obviously have been slaving over the hot stove for the previous week, baking and frying and grilling and broiling, and would take great delight in describing it all as I squeamishly tried to help by chopping up the octopus.
Later in the evening assorted family members would arrive to the eighth floor flat; loud greetings would be exchanged between young and old and finally Nonno would announce with great fanfare that it was time for an aperitif.
“Oh, finally some booze,” I’d sigh with relief. Out would come these little bottles of orange-coloured Crodino. Into the gaily coloured glasses they would be poured. Down the hatch I would guzzle and guzzle….and…..and….the buzzle…where’s the buzzle? Crodinos had no buzzle.
This would then be followed by a feast fit for kings as plate after plate of food would arrive; scrumptious warm and cold fish antipasti, various pies, salads, first pasta courses and second courses with salmon and cod and swordfish, all washed down with white wine.
Around 11.45pm Nonno would suddenly disappear. Maybe to the toilet.
Round about midnight, we’d hear a faint tinkle coming from the balcony, the door would open, and in would come a white-bearded, sun-glasses-wearing Santa Claus! He wouldn’t say a word as he’d drop the bag on the floor, give a regal wave, and disappear as quickly as he came. Much as the kids tried, they never managed to see where he went.
Christmas morning would often begin with a walk in the blistering sunshine after having been admonished to “wrap up warmly, it’s very cold out there”. This would be followed by another early afternoon feast of plate after plate of scrumptious warm and cold meat antipasti, various pies, salads, first pasta courses and second courses with beef and aubergines and sausage, all washed down with red wine.
Last year, we said enough was enough; we’d throw an “Irish” Christmas for the Roman contingent in Pesaro. Backup troops arrived from Galway for support.
The Romans were a bit surprised to be served a normal dinner on Christmas Eve. Where was the fish? And Santa? He didn’t show up either. But that was fine, we were all older now, and anyhow they were giddy with excitement at the thought of the famous turkey lunch planned for the morrow. Just like the American films!
My sister and I mightn’t have been slaving all week, but we certainly rose at cockcrow on Christmas morning to put the turkey into the oven and get everything ready.
“Where’s the turkey bag?” asked my sister.
“Mmmmm, I don’t think they have them in Italy.”
No matter, it would be fine. Hadn’t our grandmother and her grandmother before her cooked their turkeys without turkey bags?
We then set to chopping and peeling and boiling and soon the carrots and spuds and Brussels sprouts were all cooked to perfection. The turkey was looking great in the oven.
“Where’s the turkey gravy?” asked my sister.
“Ehhh, I don’t really have any,” I replied, a bit sheepishly this time.
Finally everything was almost ready. I announced with great fanfare that it was time for the aperitif which everyone seemed to enjoy as glasses were refilled.
We took the turkey out of the oven, possibly somewhat overcooked judging by how tough it was to carve, but it definitely looked fabulous in all the Instagram and Facebook posts. The plates were filled and put on the table.
“Oh, just one plate?!” asked the Romans.
As I shovelled the food into my mouth, I saw all the Romans, forks in hands, peering down suspiciously at the mountain in front of them. They picked and prodded and made enquiries as to how I’d cooked the carrots, “boiled” and the spuds, “boiled” and the Brussels sprouts, “boiled”, but gamely ate some and left some and made polite conversation.
They all refused seconds.
When we’d all put down our forks at the end, I had to ask:
“Well, what did you think?”
“Good, good, nice!”
Thank God the aperitif this year hadn’t been Crodino.
We’re heading home for Christmas this year, where I’m looking forward to some nice moist turkey and veggies drowning in turkey gravy.
Buon Natale a tutti!
