My family has lived in the US for more than 25 years and have celebrated Thanksgiving every year. Now coming from Cuba and suddenly celebrating a holiday in late November where you eat turkey wasn't an easy adjustment. But, like every hard-working immigrant family in America, my family wanted to accustom themselves to live in the states. So with that came the Cuban-American Thanksgiving I've celebrated for the majority of my life.

"What does a Cuban eat on Thanksgiving?" Good question.

Everything.

I've been eating turkey and stuffing since I can remember. I've always enjoyed mashed potatoes and green bean casserole and sweet potato casserole and gravy and pumpkin pie. That's the American part of me. But I do love a good flan or tres leches for dessert. I'll have turkey and cream cheese and guava on a biscuit for a nice lunch.

My grandparents loved turkey. They loved all things about Thanksgiving. They loved the holidays in general. And only a Hispanic can say "Happy Tansgibing" with such joy and grace. So they celebrated Thanksgiving, dressed up their turkey, and invited the family over for dinner.

My mom took over the Thanksgiving dinner preparations. While listening to Celia Cruz and Gente de Zona, she prepped the turkey and made all the fixings, like every other American mom in November. And while my grandmother helped, I sat and watched, learning how the two most influential women in my life perfected the iconic American dinner.

We always had family over: whichever Cuban cousins wished to join; my uncle and his partner, maybe some of their friends that didn't have a place to eat for the holiday; a friend or two of my sisters, maybe a boyfriend who was able to break away from their family; and my aunt and uncle and grandmother on my stepfather's side. It was a huge feast, with more and more people coming every year, bringing with them bottles of wine and more food than we had room for on the table.

My stepdad would give his toast, followed by my mother's toast in Spanish, and my grandparents would nod along, more focused on the food than the many thanks and blessings that were being passed around the table.

We ate, laughed, shared our political views, argued over our political views, then cleared our plates for the long-awaited food coma which would take over all of us. My mom would translate stories for my grandparents so they could be a part of the conversations. My grandmother loved the after-dinner talks, as it was her way of winding down.

Sometimes, after dinner, we'd play dominoes while polishing off bottles of wine. Sometimes, we'd just sit in silence, reminiscing on the fabulous meal we'd just have, waiting to eat the leftovers for the next day. I'd sit and imagine all the ways I'd incorporate turkey into my meals for the following week.

So yes, our celebration was much like many other Americans. We ate the same meals, with some new desserts introduced, and had similar dinnertime conversations, and maybe play a round of dominoes or two. But we were like every other American family, with an extra dash of Cuban in us.