I started making the rounds, kissing my grandmother, aunties, uncles and cousins. By the time I was finished, I had had enough. My lips needed lip-gloss and I needed ice for my cheeks. I didn’t understand why Italians had to pinch cheeks. It killed and they see you grimacing in pain and instead of stopping, they did it more. It was as if they enjoyed inflicting pain on you, especially Commare Caterina and those sharp, long nails digging deeply into my flesh for at least half-an-hour. All right, I was exaggerating a little bit, but it felt that long. I wished I could squeeze their cheeks and see if they liked it. I bet they wouldn’t find it very amusing, but I could never do it. I would probably receive a lecture on respecting one’s elders or worse, end up with malocchio.
Many people didn’t believe in the evil eye but like most Italians, I was brought up believing in it from the day I was born. What else could explain the constant pounding in your head or the misfortune in your life? A doctor couldn’t diagnose it but water and oil certainly did.
Malocchio was caused by the bad thoughts of other people — either they disliked you, were envious of you or jealous of your possessions. They could be talking behind your back or just give you one long unfriendly stare in the eye and you would have it.
Panadol couldn’t even ease the pain of the migraine. Nothing could, unless you knew the spell to remove it. Mum was taught years ago the chant to check for the evil eye, though couldn’t get rid of it.
There were ways to ward off malocchio, by wearing gold good luck charms of a mano cornuto or a corno. The mano cornuto is an Italian hand gesture of a horned hand, where you made your hand into a fist, held your middle and ring fingers together with your thumb while extending your index and pinkie finger outward like horns, whereas the corno was an amulet of a long, twisted horn. I had both charms and usually wore them on my bracelet but I didn’t wear them that often. At Newton Secondary College, the high school I attended, the amount of jewellery we were allowed to wear was limited and I preferred not to anyway. Once I did and my friends asked me if I had a fascination with chillies. I tried to explain it was to protect me but gave up eventually. There was no use trying to explain a custom they didn’t know of or didn’t believe in.
There was another way to cure malocchio but it was rather difficult. You needed to spit three times on the person that gave it to you. You may have suspicions about who cursed you but unfortunately you never really knew and you couldn’t really go around spitting on everyone. It was offensive and dangerous, especially if you were living in a small town in Italy. There would be a flood from all of the saliva. It would actually be pretty funny to see, wogs in all shapes and sizes, dressed in black, spitting and screaming out puttana. Usually, malocchio was from someone fairly close to you, a person you would never suspect because they always seemed nice to you. I was definitely wearing the charms tonight though and had to at most family occasions like weddings. You needed them at places like this. Italians always gave you malocchio, deliberately or not.
“All right everyone,” my cousin Cynthia began. “It’s time to open presents!” Cynthia was Tessa’s nineteen-year-old sister. She was a lot of fun to be around with and very easy to talk to, which was why I chose her to be my sponsor for my confirmation last year. Ever since she sponsored me, she had never once failed to come over for occasions, whereas my Commare Rose, who baptised me, had neglected me the last couple of years, which was very strange. Every year, she would visit me for Easter, my birthday and would often call just to see how I was. Except now, things had changed. She no longer came over, nor phoned regularly and it really hurt me. Especially since, she still visited Sophie. My once high opinion for her had faded and I didn’t appreciate being ‘second best’ and although I still loved her, I couldn’t display any affection to people who couldn’t show me love in return.
Not that Cynthia was Saint Theresa either, far from it. She had her faults, everyone did. Eight months ago, she married Tom Corvi and I was very upset with her regarding her bridal party. Not because I wasn’t in it but the outcome of the entire event. When Cynthia chose her bridesmaids, she apologised for not picking me. She claimed she had too many and couldn’t afford another. I accepted that, you couldn’t have everyone. I honestly didn’t expect to be in her bridal party and wasn’t offended. However, a week after her apology, she chose another bridesmaid and that hurt me. If she didn’t want me, that was fine but why did she have to give me some little speech when it wasn’t true. I would have been better off not knowing as being lied to was the one thing I hated most. I was over it now but at the time, I was pretty pissed off.
It may seem like I had about fifty Commares but I really didn’t. Commare Caterina was actually my Godmother Rose’s mother but as a sign of respect, every married female or male were called ‘Commare’ or ‘Compare’. Personally, I thought it was stupid. By addressing everyone this way, it actually demeaned the titles your real godparents had. However, no matter how silly I thought this custom was, I had to do it. People actually became quite offended when you didn’t use the correct terminology and it was so much easier to give in to Italians, than to argue with them. You would never hear the end of it and then be labelled as bad mannered for the rest of your life.
We all followed Cynthia into the formal lounge room and gathered around the tree, its bright multicoloured lights flickering on and off against the window, illuminat-ing the enormous mass of gifts underneath. We sorted through the pile, picking up and giving the presents we had bought.
Our families have always celebrated Christmas Eve together and then opened our pressies at midnight. I loved our tradition. I knew all my friends had to wait until the morning to open their gifts and I would have hated that extra day of suspense.
“Here Brat, open this one first,” Carla said, throwing her gift at me. “It’s from Abby and me.”
“Thanks Bitch…I think.” I started to unravel the wrapping, trying not to tear the paper. Abby and Carla were staring at me intently, both wearing the same stupid grin on their faces. Impatiently, I tore at the rest of the paper. A navy blue T-shirt with matching shorts, a couple of R.L. Stine novels and the Wheel of Fortune board game I had always wanted. I couldn’t believe it. I loved the game show and had always wanted to be a contestant. Unfortunately, I was too young and too shy to audition. I may be good enough guessing at home, however I didn’t want to embarrass myself on television.
“Thank you so much,” I said, hugging them both. “I love it.”
“We thought you would since that’s all you’ve been talking about,” Carla said.
“Thanks for listening to me for once.” They both chose to ignore me, giving out their other gifts. I began opening the other presents I had received, and then went into the dining room for dessert.
The table was covered with a wide range of cakes: z uppa inglese, thick chocolate custard with teddy bear biscuits within each layer, tiramisu, savoiardi biscuits dipped in espresso coffee, spread with mascarpone cheese, lathered with whipped cream and grated chocolate sprinkled over the top and Carla’s lemon cheesecake, her speciality, it was smooth, creamy and the cookie crust just melted in your mouth. There were also a couple of large trays of biscotti topped with glazed cherries or almonds and an assortment of little Italian cakes; profiteroles and mini cannolis filled with chocolate or vanilla custard. Cakes were one of my downfalls, especially zuppa inglese and these miniature cakes. These cakes from the Italian pasticceria were to die for and I couldn’t resist them for anything. Not that I tried. They were very expensive, eighteen dollars a kilo, and were only bought for special occasions.
Then there were the panettones. We had about ten of the light, dome shaped cakes, arranged on our bench at home that were given to us as Christmas presents by no other people besides wogs and Aussies that assumed we liked it because we were wogs. Definitely not true. While my family members might like panettone, I hated it. It tasted like a bumpy, rotten peel of an orange. Not that I had ever eaten one, nor expected to, however I didn’t think there would be much difference between the two. Besides, I hated sultanas and I would be spitting them out every two seconds. I know there are hundreds of