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A Pit Lane Persephone Christmas
SHORT STORY
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I'm usually not very picky about food (half of my year is spent carb loading for racing, after all), but what I wouldn't give right now for a big, fat turkey drumstick. I'd tear into it Renaissance Faire-style, holding the leg bone in my bare hand before ripping a hunk of deliciously charred flesh off with my teeth. Hmmm. Classy.
Huddled into the corner of the couch with my feet drawn up under me while leaning against my boyfriend, I snicker at the mental image. Seb's parents have been gracious hosts during my few days in Rome, but they'd probably draw the line at their only child dating a girl with the manners of an ogre. Plus, I'm just blessed to be spending Christmas with them in Italy, so I shouldn't complain about taking part in cultural traditions that I'm not used to.
At least the Bianchi family doesn't do a full blown fast on the twenty-fourth like many of their more hard-core Roman Catholic countrymen. Seb's mom Gabriella actually prepared a literal seafood feast for our late lunch today with dishes like salt cod pasta, fried calamari, and oyster shooters that are supposedly local specialties, so it was really just the meat they left out. His dad Rafael also made vegetarian ravioli from scratch, while his aunt Flavia brought homemade cannoli. His two little cousins were double-fisting them even before the first course, so I only got to try one. Those little hooligans.
Seb shifts, reaching for his mulled wine on the coffee table. It's probably not a bad thing that at eighteen, I can't legally drink at home because I already had too much of the stuff earlier, downing a mugful a little too fast when we got back home from our visit to the Christmas market. A harsh wind had been blowing all morning, and by the time we'd walked across the Tiber from the Della Vittoria neighborhood, I was frozen through. The hot, spiced booze hit me hard, forcing me to take a midday nap in the Bianchi's spare room. I'm such a lightweight.
I wouldn't normally even be thinking of food so obsessively. It's just that we skipped a regular dinner time in favor of eating after midnight, and I'm already so darn hungry again. For some reason, all I can fantasize about as we wait to go to Mass—which actually starts at nine (these Romans are such jokesters)—are Dad's cheesy mashed potatoes. They're to die for. I think he sneaks cauliflower into it just to make sure I get enough vitamins or whatever, but I don't care since it tastes divine. I wonder if he made a batch to take to church back home in San Jose for their potluck since I left him alone for the holidays this year. The mash was actually also one of Seb's favorites on the Thanksgiving menu when he recently visited me. The pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce on the other hand left him unimpressed. He said that in Italy, gourds are for the pigs, while he had never even seen a raw cranberry before.
