Home is where the ______ is

If I tell you about my annual journey home for the holidays, I will:

1. Cry

2. Hate myself for crying

3. Feel terribly guilty for any written attacks (direct or subconscious) that would inform you on the difficulty of being around my family

Instead I will tell you things (hopefully benign) that I remembered while I was home.

1. We used to have nougat at Christmas. Apparently this is an Italian thing, according to shops around Boston. My parents don't remember.

2. My mother developed a brilliant system for socks and hand-me-downs that she should have patented. It's not too late, actually.

3. Sunday mass, and waking, dressing, and getting there on time, was a predictably epic battle of Kids vs. Dad. Dad always won but he fought dirty. (So did we.)

4. Our phone would ring off the hook on holidays. Relatives and friends would call and whoever had the phone would call the next person into the kitchen to take a turn talking. It was torture, but it was explicitly forbidden to dodge the two-second conversation. Reluctance was tolerated. Hiding was not.

5. After we were already off to school, Mom would make herself a mug of tea with milk and a little sugar. Presumably she would carry it around the house while she put away laundry or cleaned, because we would find it on a closet shelf or a windowsill, half-full and cold. I use to love sipping it before I brought it downstairs to the kitchen.