How to Love an American Man by Kristine Gasbarre

Author:Kristine Gasbarre
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

Chapter 7

Be Prepared to Forgive

MY PARENTS RARELY FIGHT. Sure, I remember a few unpleasant exchanges between them when I was a kid—Mom would spend too much shopping, or Dad would stay out with his buddies too late. But really, for pretty much my whole life I’ve seen them demonstrate a mutual regard and a fondness that they both know they’d miss terribly if they didn’t have each other.

This is why to this day I find it strange that they’ve never come up with a solution for their annual holiday fallout, which kicks off every holiday season with a less than joyous sputter. The Christmas conflict tends to start with the tree. Dad goes to a farm to chop his own stock, and upon his return in the company truck, Mom stands in the doorway resting her elbow on her wrist in assessment. Hm. What made you go taller this year, Bill? Was the blue spruce all they had? What the heck, did a bear attack this? We don’t have ornaments big enough to disguise all these bald spots.

From there it generally escalates, with holiday decorating malfunctions foiling all the fun. The tinsel seems to have shrunk from last year and won’t wrap the whole way up the banister, then it looks like someone’s misplaced the dogs’ stockings—where will we stuff their Dingo snacks?! To top it off (literally), the motorized Santa Claus that we stick on top of the tree sounds like he’s dropped his tranny. He waves out to the living room with his hips wiggling suggestively as if he’s on a mechanical bull, but the horse carousel he’s riding no longer rises and falls with holiday glee.

I remember outgrowing all the holiday thrill right about when I turned twenty-three. By that time the holidays had come to mean leaving work early after a jam-packed day and rushing to Penn Station for eight hours on the Amtrak. I’d arrive home, throw on my sweats, and somehow manage to gain eight pounds in three days, and then immediately tell the family a tearful but rushed goodbye. Plus, I’d climb back on the train to the city with none of my new presents in tow, because they wouldn’t fit in my suitcase . . . or my apartment. That period was when I realized why so many people actually dread the holidays: no matter how much you love your family, getting together with them can present some challenges.

But last year at least Grandpa was still here. I’d been miserable in Milan for Thanksgiving, and my friends and I tried to celebrate by improvising a pumpkin pie recipe. The Italians only use fresh pumpkin, so we had to boil it down and puree it, and when we couldn’t find brown sugar, we used maple syrup instead. When the pies were finished, they were in fact beautiful, and all night we sat indulging in individual mini-pumpkin pies with a buttery biscotti crust instead of dough. However, I remember feeling that eating a pumpkin

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