‘Wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow you will see how much we Italians eat. And I warn you, we take alooooongtime.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
‘Merry Christmas, Mum!’ yelled Lucy, straining to be heard over Mariah belting out ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’.
‘Lucy, sweetheart!’
‘I’m glad to see you’re all having a good time.’
‘Vol-au-vent, anyone?’ said Aunty Morag, sashaying across the screen, her paper hat almost covering her eyes.
‘Morag, look who it is!’
‘Hi, Aunty Morag. Merry Christmas!’
‘And to you too, darlin’. How are things over there in “bella Italia”? Met any dishy men yet?’
Six seconds! It had taken Aunty Morag barely six seconds to get onto her favourite topic.
‘No, Aunty Morag.’
‘Bill, can you turn the music down?’
‘Hiya, darlin’! Merry Christmas!’
‘And to you too, Dad.’
‘Bill! I said the turn the music down.’
‘A cena,Lucia!’ she heard Elena call.
‘No, don’t worry, Dad. Lunch is ready. I’ll call you later, when you don’t have a house full. Byeee!’
The orangey-blue Sambuca flame flickered and danced, the earthy aroma of sizzling, succulent lamb mixed with rosemary, wafting through the air.
CouldAgnello alla Vesuviocompete withDry Turkey alla Brussel Sproutin the Christmas dinner stakes? Lucy wondered.
‘Uno, due, tre!’ Under the watchful eye of his grandfather, Stefano smothered the flame with a salad bowl, to warm applause andecstatic barking from Harry, whose longing gaze was firmly fixed on the centre of the table.
With great flourish, Alfonso began sharpening the carving knife, à la Sweeney Todd. As he plunged the fork into the sumptuous joint, the sweet, caramelised juice oozed onto the platter. Harry licked his lips.
With a proud smile, Alfonso handed Lucy a warm plate of blushingly pink, thinly sliced lamb.
Pointing to the overflowing dishes of steaming vegetables, Valentina said, ‘Mangia! Eat!’
Mouth-wateringly delicious though it looked and smelled, Lucy wished she hadn’t scoffed so much olive bread with her soup, had an extra helping of home-made lasagne, or mopped up the leftover sauce withscarpetti– little pieces of bread.
But how could she have refused? She was their guest. It would have been extremely impolite.
Just one bite, and her taste buds soared. She felt some of the sauce on her face as it slowly trickled down her chin.
Despite feeling like an overstuffed turkey, she stoically managed two helpings of the tender, flavour-filled lamb.
Why had she never eaten lamb at Christmas before? She hated turkey. So, why eat it every year? The same reason she’d slouch on the sofa, gorging on leftovers and selection boxes, while watching repeats of old sitcoms; the same reason she’d allowed herself to be dragged to the pub on Christmas night, to be showered in beery kisses by revellers wearing festive jumpers and silly hats.
Why? Because that was what she always did.
‘Some more panettone, Lucy?’
