Words that bring nostalgic feelings about Christmas: Boston. Lasagna. Barack Obama.
So, you may think, Boston makes sense, lasagna I can understand, but Barack Obama? Let me explain.
After five years of not having seen my dad’s side of the family, I decided to invite myself over for Christmas. My head and heart were full of nostalgic feelings at the thought of spending a second Christmas in Boston. The big Italian family reunion, the New England cold, that old American something that I find so desirable yet can’t put a finger on.... My uncle and his family live in Boston while my grandparents live in upstate New York (otherwise known as God’s country, if you happen to be talking to my grandmother). I currently live in Sweden, which accounts for the five years of separation. My uncle Christopher and his wife Dorothy were gracious enough to say yes to my request, even though it meant hosting the entire family (Gramma and Grampa included). Anyone who comes from an Italian-American and/or otherwise dysfunctional family understands the full weight of this generosity. But I digress.
On to lasagna. Christmas would not be complete without Gramma’s lasagna. I grew up in a half Swedish half Italian-American home. Since it was my mother who was Swedish, the Christmas dinners at our house resembled those of her native country: crisp bread with butter and cheese, shrimp and marinated herring, meatballs and small potatoes, ham and lutfisk (which was once described by a family friend as the piece of cod that passes all understanding).* But whenever we spent Christmas with my dad’s family, there was lasagna. Turkey, stuffing and lasagna. Pusties, cannoles and lasagna. Italian sausage, meatballs and lasagna. My grandmother felt it was her personal duty to provide the partakers of Christmas dinner with lasagna. Even though there was already enough food on the table to feed all of Manhattan.
So, true to form, Gramma brought lasagna to Boston. And tomatoe pie. And pusties. And her fruitcake. The infamous fruitcake that she made every year and sent to her kids in the mail. Of course, it was almost petrified once it arrived in Portland, Oregon, where my family lived for 10 years. When my parents and I moved overseas to Europe, she gave up on sending it - a great relief to us all, especially to my dad who insisted on eating it out of guilt. He was the only one of us who would touch it.
Over this splendid dinner of lasagna and other delicacies, the inevitable topic of politics came up. My grandparents are both avid watchers of Fox news and equally avid supporters of Republican presidential candidates. My extended as well as immediate family have also historically voted Republican, but in the last election both my brother and uncle voted (gasp!) for Obama. This was of course unsettling to my grandparents who must have felt that they had failed somehow in raising their children right (pun intended). The topic was raised again when this time, my cousin Anthony, who recently turned 18, declared that he would vote for Obama in this next election. My grandfather subsequently went off on how Obama has spent so much money and been irresponsible with America’s economy, etc. His face turned red, his hands shook and his voice grew to a feverish pitch. He concluded his pleasant monologue with what became material for imitation during the rest of our time together: ”Anyone who votes for Obama is an idiot.” (If you say this in a loud voice and with an upstate New York accent, you will be getting close.) Being who he is though, my grandfather quickly cooled down to his normal temperature and was soon back to his jovial self. And after a few minutes, he was laughing at our imitations of him. My grandfather is too sweet to hold a grudge for long. My grandmother remained uncharacteristically silent during the whole speech, but then again, she has been more ”docile” since her stroke a couple of years ago....
The other topic of conversation was of course my (lacking) love life. My grandmother reminds me repeatedly that she lights a candle for me at every mass, so I was prepared for a barrage of helpful suggestions and questions over potential candidates, but I wasn’t prepared for her comment about my fabulously wide hips, ”great for giving birth”. I laugh, because I know she only says those kinds of things out of her great affection for me. But what did give me a slight twinge of despair is that she stated at one point that she’s almost given up hope that I will find someone. Once, several years ago, she told me to not be so ”damn particular” about men. I let it slide because I intend to be particular at all cost, even if it means ending up alone. But somehow that reprimand has stuck with me. Am I too particular? Or am I just aware of my own worth and unwilling to compromise on what I know would make me truly happy? I know the answer, of course, but still, it’s a question that I sometimes ponder during my weakest moments of wallowing in self-pity. But again, I digress.
All in all, the Christmas weekend spent in Boston was most definitely the highlight of my year. I got to play games with my cousins, stroll around the city, wax poetic about my desire to be wealthy, and, of course, avoid eating fruitcake.
Oh! I almost forgot the garish red satin blouse thing that I got from Grandma. She was so proud of it too. I gave her my usual cheerful and slightly louder than necessary ”Thank you, Gramma!” and silently vowed to leave the blouse for Dorothy to take to Goodwill. (She later informed me that they had tried to give the blouse away as a white elephant gift, but nobody wanted it.)
*This is funny if you are familiar with the Bible verse that says ”the peace of God that passes all understanding.”
