Grandma’s Christmas Box

Our goody box was probably only two feet tall but this yearly treat seemed five feet high to this kid’s eyes.

I was singing my chirpy little heart out in elementary music class until our teacher paused to make announcements about our school’s upcoming Christmas pageant.

She pointed her finger at me and announced I would be singing a solo. The second verse of Silent Night. Oh no! I’d have to hit that high note in pee….eace and do it successfully or risk masked giggles from parents in the front row.

I waited until the end of class before I surreptitiously peeled back my sweater sleeve to examine the warm, damp crook of my inner arm. Aha! I knew it! The first little bloom of eczema was hatching right on time, two weeks before Xmas day.

My body’s stress barometer plagued me every mid-December without fail. The patch began steadily spreading until two days after Xmas, almost like clockwork.

Soon there would be more chaos than usual in our frenetic household, with a thundering climax on the most unsilent, unholy night of Christmas Eve. Our family wasn’t normal in any regard, but that particular day and night would be enough to convince prospective parents not to have children.

Floors would be waxed before the tree was brought in. Younger kids were verbally chastised for throwing tinsel onto branches instead of carefully placing each strip like a few of my older siblings demanded. A dog’s wagging tail might break a precious ornament, causing everyone to yell and banish the beast from the living room.

The canaries would protest after being moved to make room for the tree. The cats would park in front of their cage, delighted by the fluttering, their tails swishing eagerly as they envisioned crunching their tiny bones.

My oldest brother, a true Grinch, would walk around expressing his personal burden. “Why was I born in this family? What have I done to deserve this?” The rest of us voiced, “What have we done to deserve you, is more like it bro!”

Confirming his feelings, someone would bellow out “Who swiped my choir robe? It was the only clean one! Fork it over or suffer!” “It wasn’t me,” came the family chorus of sibling denial.

International Christmas songs played non-stop and so loud the neighbors were privy to our selections through our closed doors and windows. The elders two houses down didn’t even bother with their usual polite request for a decrease in volume.“Buon Natale” would greet their dinner too.

Meanwhile, I industriously cultivated the growth of my eczema. Even becoming rather fond of it. Scratch, scratch, scratching the crook of my arm. So soothing to feel the itch and know I could do something about it, unlike the general mayhem and madness.

Under the table at dinnertime was my favorite moment to encourage my friend, the patch. Hearing mother in the background. “Stop that scratching! You do it every year.” She’d reach over and swat my hand away if I was close enough.

The dreaded photo session for Xmas cards, highlighting the relentless expansion of our tribe. I could envision people receiving them and condemning us, “ Nine kids now! When are they going to stop?”

There was a major saving grace in our family drama. The holiday season meant Grandma’s box was on the way.

Father would return home from work manhandling the huge box he had to pick up from the Post Office. It was heavy, partly due to the amount of love packed inside.

He’d place it on the dining room table as we all flushed out of various holes and gathered together in shared excitement. No quibbling, just pure joy as the unwrapping began.

Grandma lived in California and we lived in Washington state so she carefully protected each layer of her labors. The top ones were in tins and home to her favorite, Italian Xmas cookies. I never tasted almond biscotti that could rival hers. Not even mothers, who were excellent bakers and tried to replicate them without the same success.

Grandmas were crunchy on the outside and chewy inside. The almonds were harvested from her own trees. She never used a recipe in her entire life, even with the most delicate of baked goods. She’d hold ingredients in her hands and measure through the feeling in her fingers. Spot on every time.

A lot of these cookies carried an impressive history. Amaretti [almond biscotti] was first made during the Middle Ages. Their name was derived from amaro, meaning bitter, in reference to the strong almond flavor.

Savoiardi, a light and airy sponge biscuit in the shape of a large finger was first made in the 15th century at the Duchy of Savoy, to honor a visit by the King of France.

Pizzelle, flat waffle cookies with embedded designs, originated in the Abruzzo region and predate Xmas. They are said to be the oldest cookie recipe on Earth and have been noted in the 8th Century B.C.

Ricciarelli, another chewy almond cookie was conceived in Tuscany in the 14th century.

Next came a layer of gold and purple, sun-kissed and dried figs from her backyard trees. Each had a tiny slit where she inserted blanched almonds for the unexpected crunch in the middle of a perfectly ripened, explosion of fruity flavor.

First the sweets, then the savory. Grandma knew all about the fat, sweet, and salt miracle triad.

The hard cheeses tumbled out. Pecorino Romano is made from sheep milk and tastes distinctly different from Parmigiano Reggiano made from cow’s milk. Smooth and aged Asiago was my favorite.

An entire wheel of Provolone spilled forth. This popular cheese originated in southern Italy, grandmas home territory, and was made from cow or buffalo milk. It has a mild flavor that can adapt to many dishes.

Next up were the dried salamis which could be stored at room temperature up to forty days once they were cut, making them a winner when traveling or a lack of refrigeration.

The word salami is derived from “salame” as a reference to all salted meats. Salamis have been made for at least two thousand years, dating back to ancient Greek and Roman times, when curing meats was the primary means of food preservation.

Soppressata was flavored with garlic, peppers, fennel, oregano, and basil and wrapped in a powdery, protective casing. Pepperoni for pizzas on the way. Tinocchiona, a spicy salami, dry-cured with fennel seeds and black pepper.

The next layer offered a hefty bag of varied nuts, all harvested from her own trees, walnuts, and almonds being the most abundant of the lot.

Our final layer was Whitman’s 40 ounce, Giant, Holiday Sampler box of chocolates. We scrolled our fingers along with the guide, searching for our selections, mine being the dark chocolate, pecan turtles. I thought milk chocolate was an aberration and couldn’t even look at the white chocolate ones someone must’ve created on a bad day.

Whitman became contentious when we discovered culprits had violated our rules and dented each chocolate to investigate their innards after the guide disappeared. An inevitable occurrence. No one fessed up of course, but aspersions were cast nonetheless.

These labors of Grandma’s love lasted for weeks as we made charcuterie boards with the salamis and cheeses and savored the cookies and chocolate as fuel for our somewhat rabid laborers.

Mother made plenty of special cookies too so we certainly didn’t suffer from a lack of sugar and butter the entire month. Grandma’s box carried extra flavors, however. Each item she touched came to represent something way beyond satisfaction from delicious goodies.

They demonstrated the core essence of this powerful, yet humble, matriarch. The teen with enough courage to leave Italy and start out fresh in a country where she couldn’t even speak the language.

She helped carry her family through the Great Depression with her seamstress skills. Grandma would carefully study a dress featured in a shop window and make a quick sketch. Returning home with it fresh in her mind, she created her own patterns.

Word spread and women in the neighborhood started lining up outside her door. Her charge was minimal in comparison to the retail cost few could afford. They chose their material, she whipped it up and they received better goods than the manufactured lot. A win all around.

It was her care and deep love for each one of her grandchildren and my parents packed inside the box. I could see her practiced, skillful hands throwing in that bit of salt, hefting the flour to make sure it felt right.

Her hands picked the nuts off her trees. Considering the treats they would go into at the end of the year. Her hands created each pre-meditated layer as she envisioned our delight in the opening.

I wish I could’ve spent more time around our Italian grandmother. She moved to the West coast when I was young, but returned to the East coast at a certain point in her aging.

Our family was the only one living in the West and we were not able to visit often. Might as well return to the greater clan of extended relatives in the autumn of her life.

Both Grandma and Grandpa were only a few years shy of becoming Centenarians when they passed. Their Mediterranean diet and steady activity had a lot to do with their longevity. The major ingredient in their healthy lives, however, was the love this force of a woman generated in the field around her.

Hey grandma, wherever your dust is swirling around in the cosmos. Your granddaughter is still carrying bits of your bones and blood. But I have to confess.

I tried making biscotti like you did, measuring with my hands. I dropped one on my barefoot and bruised my little toe. The dog ended up chewing on them instead of his bone. You remain the Queen of Biscotti!

Buon Natale to all and may your biscotti be crunchy outside and chewy within!