My father was 17 years old when he first came to the United States. He had worked and then entered the US Army . My father fought in Korea. Since he had chosen to fight in the US Army, he was able to obtain US citizenship. This was a quicker way of obtaining US citizenship. My father returned to Italy and met my mother in San Donato.  They arrived in America in 1948, and then my mother called for some of her other relatives to come to America.  They came to America to find work and to give us the opportunities that they did not have when they were younger.  My parents, aunts, and uncles grew up during World War II, and experienced many hardships while living in Italy during the war.   As soon as my parents came to America, they appreciated all of the wonderful things which America had to offer. They were proud to become American citizens.  

However, my parents always said that their hearts would always be Italian, and they did everything possible to keep the Italian traditions alive in our home.

I was born in 1967, and I am the youngest of six children. I want to share with you my version of how the world looked to me growing up in an Italian family.  

I remember how much I enjoyed the American traditions at Christmas time. I loved going to my friends’ homes and eating their American foods, such as popcorn balls,especially when they would get stuck between my teeth. Oh, how my my eyes lit up when I saw candy canes, sugar cookies and hot cocoa at their house.  I really loved the American traditions of yams, mashed potatoes, and the little chocolate Santa Clauses. They  were wrapped with the traditional red and green, foil paper.  Aaaah… I was so happy every time I entered their homes.   I remember tagging along with my friends on their shopping trips to the local drugstore and feeling excited when I saw the green and red sprinkles on the sugar cookies or chocolate cupcakes which they had bought.  I remember playing in the snow, and then eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches after the snowball fights. Their houses had the perfectly shaped Christmas tree, with all of the pretty ornaments from the local stores,and their brightly blinking star at the top of the tree.   Ah, yes, I loved playing under their trees!  Their tables were beautifully decorated with silver candles.

But, things were different at Christmas time in our Italian house. It was a beautiful tradition which I will carry with me all of my life.  We did not have popcorn balls or little chocolate Santas on our table. No, no, no.   There were boxes of Torrone candy which my mother’s friends brought to our house, and there were at least 3 boxes of Perugina chocolates. Of course, not solid milk chocolate, but flavors like hazelnut.  I remember my mother smacking the hard, nougat, Torrone candy on the kitchen table, so that we can all enjoy a piece. 

We never had ham, mashed potatoes or yams at our house.  At Christmas time, it was calamari, fritters filled with fig or anchovies, boccola, and at least 5 other kinds of fish. I remember the smell of fish at our house every Christmas Eve.  Also, I remember my aunts coming to the house with an assortment of home-made, Italian anisette cookies. The cookies were so delicately frosted with white, red, and green confectioners sugar. The best part was taking a cookie, and licking the frosting off the top! I can not forget the pizelles!  I remember how happy I was to unwrap the green cellophane paper from the tray! I would stuff as many cookies into my mouth as possible. I would eat the cookies until I saw the white doily at the bottom of the plate.   My brother and I would fight over the last cookie. 

We did not have cupcakes with sprinkles on top at our Italian house! Instead, we had a cake called Panetone.  I remember seeing about 5 boxes of panetone under our tree  in a pretty, red gift bag.  Carmela, Pia, Rocco, or Rolando dropped it off earlier that day.  There was not any hot cocoa at our house, either.  Only the scent of espresso coffee, or seeing the adults drinking their cappuccino, Strega or Sambucca.   No, Christmas would not be Christmas without  costagna, or chestnuts.  I remember how warm those chestnuts felt in my cold hands after being outside helping my brother put up the multi colored, blinking Christmas lights.  The Italian blood would boil every time one of the strands of lights would go out. Somehow, it was always my fault for tangling up the lights the year before as I put them away in our basement.  In our house, we did not have the beautiful blinking star at the top of the tree. We had an Angel, or a cross. It was traditional in our Italian home.   We had to make room for all of our presents so that we can fit the nativity of Jesus, Joseph, Mary, the goats, sheep, and shepard.  That is how it was at our house at Christmas time.   There were not any peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. No, no, no.  It was cappicola, pepperoni, or prosciutto sandwiches, or sometimes the left over meatballs from the night before.  My mouth watered as I bit into the thickly sliced, home made Italian bread and Italian meats from the local, Italian Deli.  Back then, we went to a store in Bridgeport called Sorrento. 

We always had the fatest and tallest of Christmas trees.  Every year the Italian blood boiled, as my father and brother could not fit the tree through the door.   My mother would be yelling in the background, “why did you get such a fat tree?”.  When the tree was finally squeezed through the door, it was too tall for our living room. I remember my father carrying out the saw from our garage, cutting off the top of the tree so it could fit in our living room.  We did not have ornaments from the local Christmas shops. My mother had saved all of the ornaments that we made in school, or that her family had given to her.  There were always bright colored, gold ornaments with a cross on it, hand made ornaments that my grandmother had knitted and then dipped in some type of sugary solution. We still have those snowflakes and bells that my grandmother made. That is Italian tradition.

I remember the visits from my aunts, uncles, and cousins. I would look out the window and feel so excited as I saw everyone piling out of their Cadillacs, Firebirds, and Lincoln Continentals. It was more than just having cousins coming over….It was about continuous, non-stopping eating for the next ten hours, listening to Frank Sinatra, getting in a game of Scopa (the Italian card game), jumping on the bed (on top of the gray and black wool coats when no one was looking), and trying to shake all of the boxes that were squeezed under the tree next the nativity set. I remember accidentally breaking one of the pieces of the nativity set and trying to glue  it back together with my cousins before the adults would notice! Somehow, no matter which ornament or piece of the nativity set we had broken, my Italian mother knew. She always would find some little piece of china or broken piece of the nativity way under the radiator of our living room.  She would go on and on about it for hours. Then, it was all forgotten.

The tray of salami sausages that my uncle made ( he had them hanging in his basement and would bring it over at Christmas time), provolone cheese ( we never really knew what swiss cheese tasted like at our house), green olives that my uncles bought in Italy on their recent vacation, lupine beans, mozzarella, and, ah…let’s not forget the roasted peppers that my mother made!  We would put the roasted peppers on top of the Italian bread and it tasted so good, especially close to midnight.  We ate something called mortadella ( sort of like bologna with white measles).  The hot peppers, goat cheese, and eggplant that my aunt had marinated and put into mason jars filled our table that night. It would then be time to pile into the cars and head to midnight mass. My Dad would be falling asleep and my mother would elbow him and tell him to “wake up, it is embarrassing!” She always said that in Italian.  My uncle would smell like home-made wine (we never had Riunite at our house, only home-made wine), my cousins and I would be giggling as we were all “sugared up” from the torrone and Perugina candy.   After midnight, time to eat again, and repeat the cycle!

Christmas Day, it was time to eat again for another ten hours. My cousins would bring over their game called “Rockem Sockem robots”, and we would all fight over who got to play first!   The homemade sauce and garlic scents filled our Italian home.  Christmas Day was all about the meat lasagna, fresh ricotta, broccoli rabe, about 1,000 meatballs cooking in that huge pan, and pork loin.  Back then, the tray of cannoli seemed to be as long as the kitchen table.   Most families ended Christmas Day dinner before 9:00pm.  Not ours!   We just ate and ate until we had to unbutton our pants and sit in front of tv to watch Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, or some other traditional Italian show. 

Growing up Italian was more than food!. It was about love and family.   We shared our toys, never excluded anyone from the festivities, and put all of our worries behind.   Christmas in an Italian family was magical. It was about sharing, and remembering my father talk about the time he had spent in Korea.  It seemed that the holidays were a time that our families all sat and talked about their memories of Italy. They had spent hours talking about  our loved ones who may have passed. There was always a kind word about our family in Italy.

Now, things have changed. My cousins have married and have children of their own. If I am lucky, I bump into them at the local mall at Christmas time, and we say, “let’s get together after the Christmas Holiday”. They have their careers, their own Children and in-laws now, so in my heart, my childhood Christmases with them will still live on.

Our Christmases are still filled with Italian food, Sambucca, and deserts….we still have the nativity under our tree. The only difference is that there are less coats on our bed, less place settings at the table, and a few less gifts under our tree. Yes, in an Italian house, you never throw out the ornaments grandma made.

My father, grandmother, grandfather and Uncle Rocco and Rolando passed away several years ago.But their laughter, stories and traditions will live on. I think of all of their jokes and stories about Italy, even the nicknames that they gave to all of their friends.

I am proud to be an Italian American. We have the great food, and the best moms who know how to cook anything that you are in the mood for.  Most importantly, the memory of how animated our house was at Christmas time.  

Being Italian is about packing in as many Lincoln Continentals, Cadillacs, and Thunderbirds into your driveway. Also, it is about how many pounds of prosciuttto you can consume, and how many plates of lasagna will be devoured.   Our yard may have looked a bit gaudy at times with those lights, but there is nothing that compares to the light in my heart that my family brought me when I was younger.