Our family seemed to grow every year. My parents had ten children: four boys, and six girls. Being the eldest of the six girls, I was always in charge of the baking. My sisters and I would roll pastries and prepare cakes for days before the holiday. My aunts would help Mama prepare large bowls of pasta, rolled balls of seasoned venison, and a great vessel of heavy red sauce. My brothers would bring the tomatoes up from the cellar. My brother Pasqualli always gave them to his favorite, Aunt Alda. She was the roundest of Mama's sisters. Always feeding him and pinching his cheeks.
They had been gathered from the garden and stored in a room next to the wine made by Papa. He enjoyed making—and tasting—the family's wine. He especially enjoyed watching his children step on the grapes after the harvest, all covered in purple juice, it usually found its way into our hair and clothes. Mama always complained, and he would just shrug his shoulders and act as though he had no control over us. He worked long hours in the lumber mill further down the mountain. He rode his draft horse down to the mill every morning at dawn. The mill only closed the week of Christmas.
The church had asked them to close at this time. The mill and the church were the main sources of activity in the village. We did not get many travelers; Milano was three days carriage ride away. The mountains of the north could be very treacherous during the dark month of December. The men of the village took turns lighting the oil lanterns stationed at the bottom of each turn.
We now had twenty-five people in our once small house. As each of us married, Papa, our uncles, and some of their friends would build on to the house, adding a room for the newlyweds until we could find our own home. Nevertheless, a few days before Christmas we all come back to the homestead.
Mama and I were showing the younger ones how to make Pefanino biscuits. We made them in the shape of Befana, the good spirit who filled our stockings that hung over the hearth. We also made Pecorino, a special holiday cheese made from the milk of Alpena, our pet goat. My favorite was the dried figs wrapped in laurel leaves; we traded them with the neighbors for good luck. They gave us jars filled with dates and figs filled with honey and bay leaves.
As we waited for the sauce to simmer, the children ran into the living room and gathered around the fire. Papa gave each of them a small piece of paper and each got busy writing their wishes down. Then each one took a turn placing the paper on the hearth and watching it float away as they chanted a poem.
The boys brought in the rest of the evening's wood from the shed and began to wash up. The girls finished putting bows in their hair and sat at the table. After all the food was brought to the table Papa would give a Christmas cheer and we would all drink our wine.
Mama sat to the right of Papa, who sat at the head of the table. She once sat at the other end but he asked her to move since she was too far from him. It was a very long table, filled with food and drink. Children sat with their families all in a row, one large table for all.
We all ate and drank until we were content. Papa kept filling the wine glass for Mama. She always drank whenever he poured. He enjoyed teasing her as her cheeks became flushed. She wore her formal holiday dress, handmade of red velvet and white lace. A tight-fitting corset was sewn into the waist, which pushed her bust line upright to reveal an ample pair of round olive-toned pillows that fed the ten of us. Her dark hair was pulled up and wrapped in a bun with white baby's breath woven throughout.
