a family wedding

I married into a big Italian family. In comparison to my small and scattered extended family it felt like some sort of large fraternal organization - one in which my love for wine and humor earned me an instant good standing. My first Christmas dinner with the extended clan was a life-changing experience. Eating a meal that was larger and longer than any I had ever had before, I was in heaven. The antipasto was a meal in itself. After dinner (and many glasses of Uncle Mike’s homemade wine), someone decided it would be funny to have the drunk Jew dress up as Santa for the one kid who still believed. And so that night I held a small, frightened child on my lap and asked her what she wanted for Christmas, while the aunts, uncles and cousins stifled their laughter, thus cementing me a spot in family lore.

Years later it feels like they’ve always been my relatives. I’ve watched children grow up, people get married, babies appear out of thin air and many a smart kid start drinking. I pass along gossip and dole out advice like eveyone else. Christmas has become a cherished tradition - a marathon of eating, drinking and poker that I run once a year. Last summer when Julia and I went to Italy, I was welcomed by an endless onslaught of relatives who were even more appreciative of my eating and drinking abilities than their family across the Atlantic. For three weeks straight I ate myself into a food coma. In our pictures from the trip you can watch as I grow plumper by the day.

Yesterday we went to cousin Eugene’s wedding, which, despite being held in the middle of nowhere in upstate New York on a Sunday evening, was a blast. The whole crew was there, trickling in late due to the long trek and awful traffic. The service was more traditional (Catholic) than what I’m used to (I feel uncomfortable in any religious setting, even my own), but the priest was passionate and sincere. At one point he spontaneously grabbed a bouquet from a shocked bridesmaid to make a point about the uniqueness of beauty. There was an unconfirmed story circulating that he was actually a former priest, now married, but he fooled me.

During the cocktail hour, which was held in a beautiful garden with a mariachi band in full garb (Eugene married a wonderful Columbian woman), I caught up with everybody, while we took advantage of the open bar and someone broke out cigars. After photographing the bride with her extended family (about fifteen people), the photographer, having no idea what he was in for, started to round up Eugene’s extended family. His mouth dropped open as about fifty of the seventy-five or so people at the wedding congregated together. Talk about a deep crew. After about fifteen minutes of wise cracking and shuffling around, we arranged ourselves, cigars and all, for the pictures. Laughing, arms around each other, we yelled assorted nonsense to the camera - it was an intoxicating and warm feeling, vodka and cranberry aside.

The reception was a non-stop dance party – even an aunt with a bad hip was shaking it out in the middle of the floor. Drenched in sweat I escaped to the bar, where the priest saddled up next to me.

"How’s it going?" He asked.
"Not too bad, and you?" I replied.
"I can’t complain," he said. "and after another I’ll complain even less."
"Careful," I said, "if you have too many the complaining comes back."
"I know," he nodded, "everything in life is balance."