My childhood Christmas was in many ways completely different from that celebrated by other Italian families. When I grew up in the fifties, the Italians still thought of December 25th as a religious holiday; gifts were not exchanged until many days later, during the Festa della Befana on January 6th. Instead my family’s German and Swedish ancestral traditions decreed December 24th the Real Day. So, if on the one hand I was luckier than my classmates (opening my presents a good ten days before they did), on the other la befana never brought much more than a couple of candies and a lump of sugar coal. ‘Patrizia, you can’t have everything!’ my exasperated mother would reprimand me
The Magic Begins
On December 24th, the day always began with an extraordinary feeling of expectation and excitement. We already knew and anticipated, minute by minute, all that was going to happen; yet every Christmas felt surprisingly new. At about three in the afternoon, the sound of crashing glass and silver bells ringing would make me, my brother Paolo and my sisters run to the big living room, two flights below our quarters. ‘Correte, bambini! Run, children! Run! Come and see what Papà Natale and his helpers have done!’ Papà urged us, with a great smile, as this was his favourite day in the year. The floor was strewn with pieces of broken glass and small twigs from a fir tree, proof that Papà Natale had brought the Christmas tree through the large French doors that led to the garden. ‘The windows are not broken!’ we inevi-tably exclaimed, checking the still intact glass. The jingling of the tiny bells meant that his reindeer were impatient to take him away, to deliver more trees to other homes. This magical routine was an essential part of the day’s enchantment.
Immediately after that, we were sequestered for the remains of the afternoon in the play room on the third floor. No books, no toys, no loving aunts or mothers were able to contain our excitement. ‘When can we go downstairs? When is seven o’clock?’ we repeatedly implored Mamma. We had to wait until the adults, helped by Santa’s elves, had finished adorning the tree.
Evening Ceremony
At seven my splendidly attired, handsome father would arrive and urge us all to walk downstairs. Only the tall glass doors that led into the living room allowed some flickering light to penetrate the darkened and mysterious great hall. In our party clothes, we tiptoed down the last few steps of the staircase; a sense of urgency and incantation overwhelming even our restlessness.
Nonno Gianpaolo opened the doors and slowly we filed in. Reverentially we admired the tall tree, resplendent with the glass decorations that reflected the light from hundreds of candles, precariously perched on its branches. My grandparents, uncles and aunts, older cousins and other relatives stood in the living room, holding sparklers in their hands.
‘Quanti regali!’ my siblings and I exclaimed at the sight of the mountain of gifts piled underneath the Christmas tree. ‘Later,’ whispered Mamma squeezing my hand. First the tradition called for a lot of singing and praying. We sang – no, yelled – German songs, of which I understand not a word. O Tannenbaum? Stille Nacht? Those improbable sounds were belted out enthusiastically for several long minutes, resembling minimally their original version. A collective big hug and a long prayer ended the well-established ceremony; we were finally ready to open our gifts.
Christmas Present
Almost 50 years later, my immediate family now comprises a Chinese husband and two grown Italian kids brought up in the States. International we definitely are and we celebrate a multifaceted Christmas, rich with everyone’s traditions and rites, together with the old rules and customs I brought. The unwritten laws which prevailed for my entire childhood in the Livorno kitchen and dining room have been bent to accommodate my adult desires and taste and on December 24th, the entire family gathers in my house in the Umbrian countryside. Once again we are all together and I start my organizational and gastronomic tour de force, which always includes preparing Pasticcio di maccheroni – straight out of my childhood. This dish is probably one of the last still inspired by the cuisine tradition of Imperial Rome, where sweet and savoury were combined in many dishes.
Even as an adult I love Christmas. I start planning it in July, when the sweltering sun reaches the 30s even in the hills of the region dubbed ‘the green heart of Italy’. Indolently sleeping under the wisteria-covered arbour, while the children swim and the cold, splashing water reaches my bare feet, there I am, dreaming about Christmas.
What is it that makes so many people, all over the world, favour this holiday? Is it the pleasure of cooking? Is it the joy of collecting the entire family under a roof? Did the religious meaning disappear under the pagan rites of cooking, drinking and offering gifts under a tree, a tradition imported to my country from the northern regions of Europe? It doesn’t matter. All I know is that my two sisters, their spouses and their children will be there, along with my mother and aunt, my children, my husband and those friends who want to partake in the Christmas celebrations with us.
The Magic Continues
‘Signora, do you know what the Umbrians do at Christmas?’ asks Edelvasio, my diminutive gardener. ‘Since Umbria doesn’t have firs, we cut juniper trees!’
This is how traditions are born. A tall, scrawny juniper tree will end up in my living room, adorned with the antique glass decorations from my childhood. My mother travels from Livorno, carrying several shoe-boxes full of the multicoloured, sparkling bonanza from her 56 years of marriage. Even my favourite, the little blue bird, is there! It still retains its dignity when lopsidedly perched on the tree twig, even if its long feathery tail looks suspiciously thinner.
As gifts are piling up under our anorexic Umbrian juniper, we smile, anticipating the children’s enthusiasm. The crib is almost complete; later on PierLuigi, my inventive brother in law, will surely find the best way to build a lake, suspend the comet and hang the angels.
‘Bellissimo!’ Marcantonio, PierAndrea and Clemente, my nephews, assist him with loud appreciative remarks.
The ciocco di Natale, the big, heavy Christmas log, burns brightly in the open fire. Outside, the chilly Umbrian night folds over the hills, enveloping our old casale in silvery hoarfrost. Natale is here and we are ready.
Tanti auguri a tutti!
Rosemary and Bitter Oranges by Patrizia Chen is published by Virago price £7.99
