The statuettes offering food in the Nativity scenes are emblematic of Christmas in Italy with its seasonal food traditions. Along the streets in the historic city center came a mouthwatering aroma from chestnuts roasting on charcoal braziers. Sold in paper cones, we found their taste irresistible on cold December days. The Christmas Song beginning with the immortal line, “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire” always came to mind as we munched while window shopping along streets filled with luxuries from Gucci, Valentino and the like.
Piles of boxed panettone, the fruit-studded Christmas bread, filled supermarket aisles and were stacked in the windows of corner bars. There were so many brands and varieties that it was hard to choose. We joined others holding on to the ribbon handles of their boxed treats, toting them on the subway or bus – gifts to the hostess or nonna, or just for themselves. Other seasonal foods were also abundant: pandoro, a sweet bread enjoyed by both ancient and modern Romans; tooth-breaking torrone, the flat sticks of nougat and nuts; panforte, a dense, dark and chewy fruitcake from Siena; and zampone, sausage-stuffed pig’s trotters often served with lentils.
We would set up a small and scraggly tree, the only kind available. It was decorated with crystal drops taken from old chandeliers. We found the crystals piled on the ground in the Sunday flea market at Porta Portese. As I hung the drops on the tree, I wondered who had danced under the glittering lights in the 18th and 19th Centuries, and what change of circumstances had caused their owners to sell them for a pittance.
Our table tops held figurines for our own presepe: the knife grinder, the fish monger, shepherds, the Wise Men, a camel and donkey, and of course the Holy Family. Some of the figures came from the Christmas market (unpainted terra cotta) and some from Standa, the local equivalent of a tiny Wal-Mart (cheap plastic, but hand painted in Italy), and a few from our trips to Naples. It was truly an eclectic collection.
Italians typically eat a large meal, usually fish or seafood, on Christmas Eve before attending midnight service. We reserved our holiday meal for Christmas Day. Butterball turkey showed up in our commissary, along with canned cranberry sauce. The sauce wasn’t available in Italian grocery stores and turkey was not a common commodity. More important than cranberry sauce was champagne or festive Italian prosecco – no store ever lacked a supply. We stocked up just in case.
If we didn’t have family or other visitors, we contributed to a potluck with friends. And no matter who we shared with, after the meal it was time for a walk. Our favorite route was along the Appian Way where towering umbrella pines and cypresses, dark against the blue sky, line the ancient road. The paving stones are grooved from chariots from the time of the Roman Empire. Romantic ruins are scattered along the route, like those of the mausoleum of Cecilia Metella. The remains always put me in awe of the power and skills of those who populated the Empire two thousand years before my footsteps.
When our ten-year stay came to its inevitable end, we wanted to add some of the Italian traditions to those of the Pacific Northwest. We couldn’t bring home the bagpipers or the chestnut roasters, or the ancient stones of the Appian Way. It wasn’t practical to bring home one of the hundred-piece sets of Neapolitan presepe. No problem. Panettone is available in most stores, and those shops that carry Italian foods have every other kind of holiday treat to tempt us.
The old crystal drops now grace our tall tree, reflecting the tiny lights strung on its ample branches, and a beautiful ceramic eight-piece Nativity set from an artisan in Tuscany adds an Italian note to our coffee table. These little items blend seamlessly with the pudding, the carols and the piles of cards to give meaning to the season and bring to mind our long sojourn in a place where other traditions brought happiness in a different way.
The End
ANOTHER CHRISTMAS CAROL
Juliet Kincaid
There stood Jen Shirey, thinking bloody murder and feeling absolutely no holiday joy at all.
Drab in dismal black, Jen gazed across the parlor crowded with people dressed like Victorian ladies and gentlemen. The object of Jen’s anger, a pretty blonde, wore a pearly pink gown with ruffles on the shoulders and hem of its full skirt. She clung to the arm of a tall young man wearing gray trousers, a white shirt and a gray frock coat.
The blonde in pink rose up on tiptoes and whispered something in the young man’s ear. When he smiled at the blonde, Jen ground her teeth together.
Jen didn’t know the pretty blonde, but she knew the young man for sure. He was Eric Hubbard–Jen’s date! Or so she’d thought. After all, in spite of living sixty miles apart, they’d managed to see each other every week since they’d met on a case in the fall. Jen had come up to the Catnap Inn Bed and Breakfast for the Charles Dickens Holiday Weekend at Eric’s invitation. And now there he stood, hanging on the blonde’s every word.
Turned mean by disappointment, Jen imagined all sorts of nasty outcomes for the little blonde.
Maybe the girl could get knocked down by a grocery cart in the Price Chopper parking lot and then run over by a near-sighted old lady.
Or, if Jen could find out where the blonde lived, she could sneak into her house and cross-wire her appliances. If the microwave didn’t fry her insides, maybe the cable box would.
Or, maybe Jen could follow the blonde to the mall and rig the escalator to drag her under, starting with her itty-bitty feet. That would be gory but good.
Jen grinned, but her smile vanished when she scratched the back of her neck. Part of her costume was a wad of fake hair parked at the base of her skull like some hot, furry animal. Her costume also included a gown made of heavy black fabric and smelling faintly of mildew. It had long sleeves, a high neck, and a full skirt over a hoop. She’d broken into a sweat under the heavy clothes after only a minute in the warm, crowded parlor. Plus, when she sat down on one of the parlor chairs, the hoop had sprung up revealing very authentic white pantaloons. Jen blushed, jumped up, and wished she had gotten to the costume supply back home sooner than she had, so she would have had a better choice.
Now, disgusted at the sight of handsome Eric with that blonde, Jen turned her back and gazed at the pictures in heavy frames of the Hubbards’ champion Maine Coon cats on the mantelpiece. Earlier Jen had helped Eric lug those very same cats, Ricky, Gonzo, Coonie Sue, and her most recent litter, up the hill to stay with the neighbors for the weekend. When she’d gotten back to the B & B and gone upstairs to dress for the party, she’d found her bag and her rumpled gown on the floor outside the Rose Room–her room, she’d thought! When she’d tapped on the door, though, a head dripping with blonde curls poked out. Baby blue eyes looked her up and down. Bee-sting lips lisped, “Oh Connie, I’m sure you won’t mind,” the blonde said, sounding like Scarlet O’Hara. “I took one look at this darling room and I knew I just had to have it. I adore the rose-covered wallpaper and pink is my color!”
“My name’s not Connie,” Jen had said to the closed door. “And yes, I do mind! Who are you anyway?”
Just then big handsome Eric had come down the hall. “I’m sorry, Jen. We’re going to have to put you upstairs.” He hadn’t even looked embarrassed about it. He hadn’t helped Jen carry her bags upstairs either. Instead, he’d rushed off toward the basement to have at the inn’s cranky water heater with a wrench.
In the crowded parlor, Jen turned away from the pictures of the cats and stared again at those blond curls. Jen knew where she’d like to put that wrench, and it wasn’t on a pipe.
“Oh Jen, there you are, honey,” someone drawled. “Are you having fun? Did you get some punch? It’s a special family recipe, you know.”
Clenching her fists, Jen wished she could punch the blonde right in her little button nose. The girl had been all over Eric like a cheap suit all night, even when they had gone caroling. Jen sniffed indignantly like an angry cat when she recalled trailing Eric with his football player’s shoulders as he escorted the blonde from quaint house to quaint house throughout the charming little town.
“Bah, h
umbug,” Jen muttered.
“I beg your pardon, honey?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What did you say?” Jen turned toward Eric’s grandmother, Mrs. Elvira Jones, well covered in lavender taffeta with a black crocheted shawl over her stooped shoulders and lacy, fingerless gloves on her gnarled hands. From her button shoes to the net on her white curls, all the details of her costume were perfect, except for her heavy-framed glasses.
“Would you like some punch, Jen?”
“Oh, no thanks,” Jen said, wondering in passing if the punch bowl was filled deep enough to drown the blonde in it. “Hey, Mrs. Jones, who’s the girl with Eric?”
The old woman craned her neck and looked around the crowded room. She squinted through the thick lenses of her glasses. “Where’s Eric? I don’t see him. Oh, there he is. Why that’s little Missy. Such a sweet girl.”
“Of course her name is Missy. Perfect,” Jen said to the molded tin ceiling high above.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s nothing. Sorry.”
“Missy’s Eric’s fiancée, don’t you know?”
“Fiancée?” Jen said, heart sinking. “I didn’t know Eric was engaged. He never even mentioned having a girlfriend.”
“Well, I thought they’d broken it off, but I allow as how I was mistaken because there she stands, big as life.”
Angry again, Jen wondered if little Missy might be persuaded to bungee jump. Jen could slip in with a sharp blade just at the right moment, cut the cords, and Missy would ram her darling curls right into the rocks below.
Across the room, Jen saw big Blanche Hubbard, her red hair dimmed a bit by black netting and her big body swathed in crisp, dark green satin. Accompanied by a tall, broad guy in a black frockcoat, Blanche lumbered up to her son and loomed over Missy leaning her head against one of Eric’s broad shoulders.
Winsome was the word for Missy, Jen thought. Jen also realized that she couldn’t do winsome to save her neck. “Listen, Mrs. Jones. I think I’ll go upstairs and change into my jeans and shirt. Then maybe I’ll go up the hill to see the cats.”
“Oh, Jen, I do believe you’re not having a good time. I’m so disappointed for you. Maybe I could–”
“Jen, there you are,” Blanche called from across the room. “Come on over here. I want you to meet a little gal visiting us from back home.”
Frankly, Jen would rather have been flayed than meet Missy. She eyed the nearest window and considered diving out of it. But then she wondered how she’d become such a wimp. Maybe it was the Victorian clothes getting to her. Resolved to be civil at least, Jen squared her shoulders, stepped out, promptly walked up inside her hoop, and stumbled forward.
“Oh my, I do believe somebody’s had too much punch,” Missy cooed.
Jen ripped her skirt out from under her feet and glanced at Eric. She was pleased to see him running a finger under the tight, high collar of his white boiled shirt. “Suffer, dude,” she muttered to herself before she turned her attention to Missy, all feminine and frilly in her pink ruffled gown, with her bare arms and low neckline.
Jen looked closer and realized that Missy’s arms weren’t bare after all, but covered with sleeves the color of skin. The same cloth covered her shoulders and chest above a bouquet of flowers pinned to the bodice of the pink gown. The flowers weren’t roses, as Jen would have expected, but some sort of pink, rose and deep mauve blossoms drooping on purplish stalks. She’d seen that kind of flower before, though she couldn’t say what kind they were.
“Oh, I’m so pleased to meet you formally at last, Connie,” breathed Missy in her Southern belle tones.
“Uh, Missy, her name’s not Connie,” Eric said. “It’s Jen. Jen Shirey.”
Missy leaned her charming curls close to Jen and whispered, “But I’m surprised that you’re already out and about. And you got your figure back so soon.”
“What are you talking about?” Jen said.
Missy pressed her gloved fingers to her cheek. “Oh but silly me, of course you don’t it to be bruited about that you’ve given birth, seeing as how you and the father of the babies aren’t married.” Missy bared sharp little teeth.
“Babies?” Eric said. “What babies? Jen, do you have kids? Before we met maybe?”
“I don’t have any kids.”
Missy widened her baby blues. “Now tell me, how many babies did you have, twins, triplets? In his letter, Eric never did say how many. Don’t tell me you had quadruplets, Connie.”
“Huh?” Jen said.
“Oh my gosh,” Eric said. “I know what happened. Come here, Missy. I need to talk to you.”
The blonde looked startled as Eric grasped her firmly by one arm. “Don’t go away, Jen. I’ll be right back. Sorry, I’ve been neglecting you, Jen. But I’ll make it up to you.”
Jen grinned at the scowl on the winsome face. “Cool. I’ll wait for you right here.” She watched with satisfaction as Eric hustled Missy through the crowd and out of the parlor into the hall. He released the blonde’s arm and wagged his finger at her.
Blanche leaned her red hair in between Jen and the view of Eric and Missy. “I was so surprised when she showed up. I didn’t even know she knew Eric was here. He must’ve written to her on the inn stationary. And she must have looked it up on the website Eric set up for us and found out about the Dickens weekend.”
“No, wait. Wait,” Jen said. “Missy isn’t Eric’s fiancée?”
“He broke it off months ago. He didn’t like the way she was always clinging to him, like a leech or a barnacle or something. Anyway, now I’m sure he’ll straighten it out and send that little baggage packing.”
A sharp scream came from the hall. “Somebody call 9-1-1!” a man shouted.
“What’s that?” Blanche said. “Something’s wrong with Eric, I know it.” The big woman pushed her way through the crowd and Jen followed in her wake.
On his knees, Eric gasped for breath, his fingers clawing at his collar, his face red, his lips puffed.
“My baby!” Blanche howled. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”
Still wheezing, Eric toppled over on his side and Blanche thumped down beside him. As she ripped open Eric’s shirt, a collar button popped into the air, hit the floor, and rolled away. “Come on, darling. Breathe for Mama.”
“Send the EMT’s right away,” a Victorian gent said into the cell phone he held. “Somebody here had an allergic reaction to the flowers his girlfriend was wearing.”
Jen followed the gent’s gaze to Missy holding her pink and purple bouquet in both of her gloved hands.
Jen suddenly recognized the flowers. They were cyclamen. She also recalled something she’d read about them online. She pointed at the blonde. “You! You did that on purpose.”
Missy’s blue eyes widened. She put her hand to her brow. “Oh, I’m feeling faint,” she said. Dropping the bouquet, she crumpled gracefully to the floor.
“Oops! There goes another one,” the Victorian gent said into the cell phone. “Come quick.”
Jen pulled off her fake chignon and picked the bouquet up with it. Then she reached down and shook Missy by the shoulder. “Get up.”
Missy’s eyes opened. “What do you think you’re doing?” the blonde sputtered, all trace of Southern gone from her voice. Missy turned her head and looked at the people clumped in the doorways to the parlor and dining room. “I must’ve fainted,” she said.
“You were shamming. Here let me help you up.” Jen grabbed Missy’s arm and hauled her to her feet.
“Let go of me. You’re hurting me.”
“Want to tell me about these flowers, Missy?” When Jen shook the bouquet, petals scattered. “What did you do? Get Eric to smell them?”
“What if I did? They’re harmless. How would I know Eric would have some sort of allergic reaction to my posies?”
“Are they harmless? Let’s see.” Jen pushed the flowers toward the blonde and had the satisfaction of seeing the blonde recoil. “I see you know as well as
I do that these are cyclamen and sometimes cyclamen can cause an allergic reaction. You planned this. That’s why you’re wearing gloves and your gown has long sleeves and a high neck, so the flowers wouldn’t touch your skin. You wouldn’t want to turn pink and swell up.”
“That’s not true.”
“If Eric dies, I’ll make sure you’re tried for murder.” Jen wasn’t sure of it, but she wanted to torment little Missy. “And even if he’s fine, you’re going to jail.”
Missy widened her baby blues. “You keep saying these horrid things about me.” She turned in a circle, her hands lifted in darling appeal to the ladies and gents, white-faced and shaking with shock. “Why is she saying these horrible things about me? Particularly her, having my fiancé’s babies out of wedlock.” She shook a finger at Jen. “I suppose you’re going to deny that, Connie.”
“Connie? My name’s not–”
“You’ll never have him. You may have his babies, Connie Sue, but you’ll never have him. I’ll see him dead first.” Missy clapped her hands over her bee-sting lips. “Oops.”
“Connie Sue?” Jen said. “Oh, my gosh, I just figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” Missy asked.
The next morning, still looking peaked, Eric lay propped up in the four-poster bed in the Rose Room. On the far side lay tawny and beautiful Coonie Sue, her kittens blissfully nursing. Jen sat on the other side of Eric and held his hand.