Have you ever hosted a Christmas’ Eve feast for fifty people?

                I have. And I’ll tell you all about it so you never attempt to do the same.

                I come from a big family. Did I say big? I come from a gigantic family. Both my parents have half a dozen siblings each and every single one of them is a parent. On top of that, my four grandparents are still alive.

                What happens is, ever since Frank and I started living together, we need to stop by three different places in order to see our whole family on Christmas’ Eve. As his father’s family lives in Italy, we have both my parent’s families and his mother’s family to visit. So this year we’ve decided to minimise the commute. Instead of spending most of the night running from one place to another, we agreed on meeting his mother for a family lunch on Christmas Day and having my whole family together in our place for Christmas’ Eve feast.

                I have no idea why we ever thought that would work, but we did. We sent the invitations in November to save us some time for planning. Could we have been more naïve about it?

                As I told you, we’ve hosted a feast for fifty people. Only seventy people showed up. Some of them at short notice, most of them uninvited. Worse than having all my little cousins’ boyfriends and girlfriends attending  the feast without any word from my aunts and uncles was watching them all taking part at the family photo. One of them, Grace, a hyperactive loud girl who insisted on helping in every single serving task, decided it was a good idea to sit on Grandpa Ike’s lap while exhibiting a duck face. Of course she ended up leaving the house crying over an imminent break-up session with my cousin later that night. But we’ll still have her sitting on Grandpa Ike’s lap forever in our family’s photo album.

                I also had to drive all over town trying to find an open supermarket that would sell me a last minute turkey, a couple bottles of wine and a frozen cheesecake, as the food I had lovingly prepared wasn’t going to feed everyone. And I did. For twice the price, half the quality and a whole tank of gas.

                No one actually got to drink any wine, except for Cheryl. Cheryl was one of my aunts’ sister-in-law. I had never heard of the woman before but ended up welcoming her in my house due to the fact that her husband had decided to leave her that same day and my aunt felt sympathetic about it. Apparently everyone felt sympathetic too, as the woman alone was responsible for making ten bottles of wine disappear in one night. She was also responsible for vomiting all over my recently bought synthetic leather sofa. And that wasn’t the only vomiting incident, as two of the family’s new babies had also had stomach issues, one in the carpet, the other over the untouched fruit plate.

                Tragedy was far from over. My mother’s sister Marla and my father’s brother Alan, who had never seen each other before, started talking and decided it was a good idea to hide in one of the rooms for a quick make out session while both their spouses were present. My ten-year-old cousin, an extremely religious girl with nothing but straight A’s in her records, caught them on action and yelled loud enough for every single person in the house to hear that that was the most horrible sinful act she had ever seen and that sinners went to hell. Things got extremely awkward after that, but for some holy reason no loud argument took place.

Until, of course, Secret Santa. Aunt Marla’s husband was her Secret Santa and had bought them both new wedding rings with an infinity symbol on top and the words “faithful wife/husband” on the back. There was some yelling, some crying, some breaking a vase and some small child getting cut in the arm by one of the broken pieces.

                There I went again to track an open drugstore for cream and band-aids. Of course I didn’t remember gas was practically over and ended up having to call someone to bring me gas after my car gave out in the middle of the street at two in the morning.

                By three o’clock, they were all finally gone. Frank and I didn’t need to say anything, we just look at each other’s eyes and nodded. And by nodding I mean admitting it had been the worst idea anyone had ever had in their lives. Anyone. Including people who jump from four-store buildings and TV-show freaks who put their heads inside alligators’ mouths.

                When we were in our underwear, ready to sleep away the awful night, we found a baby already asleep in our bed. Aunt Cecily, who’s got no less than eight children, had forgotten child number seven there. We got dressed again and took the baby home.

                It was past five when we got home for good. The sun was rising and it was so beautiful we decided to make some coffee and watch it come all the way up. As Frank was pouring the coffee in a couple of cups we had just got as a gift from my parents, I noticed a piece of paper stuck in one of the fridge’s magnets. It had the cutest ugly drawing of a Christmas tree and loads of sticky people around it. Above the drawing there was a message:

                “Thank you auntie Jay and uncle Frank. It was the best Christmas in all the world. I was very happy. Now I have to go because Santa doesn’t know I’m here. Love, Catherine.”

                It never got out of the fridge. One day Catherine will realise it has not been the best Christmas in all the world at all. Until then, I will pretend it has been.

                That doesn’t mean you should host a Christmas’ Eve feast.

                Please don’t.

                Ever.

                Bad idea.

Christmas' Eve-il