Growing up, I always believed my not-so-traditional Thanksgiving traditions and meals were normal - emphasis on the word "meals." Didn't everyone eat pasta instead of turkey, watch soccer matches instead of football games? Clearly not. Instead, I've learned that not everyone has a gigantic, chaotic, rambunctious, Italian family like I do.

The frenzied affair begins well before guests arrive. The hours leading up to the first ring of the doorbell require pristine preparation. While the women can be found in the kitchen inspecting steaming pots and effortlessly chopping onions, all males in the household can be found on the opposite side of the house, either bantering over politics, or napping in front of the TV as the soccer game blares on full volume. As for the kids? Our job is to remain unnoticed for as long as possible, otherwise, we will surely be put to work. "Clean your room, we have guests coming over" is a phrase I have heard all too often, no matter how many times I implore my mother to understand that we will in fact not be holding the entire party in my room.

Next, the family arrives. At first, a few grandparents, aunts and uncles begin to trickle in. But all at once, cars are lining up and down the street, and a whirlwind of loud, shouting, mustached, greasy, relatives muscle their way through the door frame. But don't forget, every grandparent, aunt, uncle, cousin, first cousin, second cousin, and third cousin twice removed must be greeted, kissed on the cheek, and pointed towards the food. Babies are coddled, significant others are introduced, and every knock on the door is proceeded by a resounding cheer from the entire house. Turbulence in every sense of the word.

When I think about "traditional" Thanksgivings, I picture a peaceful family, gathered around the table, holding hands and saying grace. The season of thanks, the season of giving. At the Santarsiero Thanksgiving, it's every guido for himself. If you pause to say grace or offer a plate or utensil to another relative, you will surely be left behind. The moment the rows of food are set out, the line of hungry Italians forms and weaves throughout the kitchen, dining room and hallways, eager to eat as quickly as possible.

While stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, and turkey are typical items found on most American tables during Thanksgiving, our menu tends to be slightly more...diverse. While you may struggle to locate sweet potatoes with marshmallows, you will surely find antipasto--cold cuts, roasted peppers, artichokes and tomatoes--pans of lasagna and monicotti, sausage and cheese, fried calamari, roasted chestnuts, dried figs and dates, raw fennel, mozzarella and tomatoes and pots of pasta of every form with every sauce imaginable. Now, these dishes require careful moderation and pacing. Every year, I vow I will try at least one of everything, but always find myself struggling to stand up from my chair. I don't think I've ever eaten more than half a plate.

As food and wine disappear, the crowd only becomes livelier. I look around and hear screeches, hoots, hollers and yelps. In one corner, my grandparents' generation is discussing the old days and the old country. I listen in and can't help but smile as their hands flail and nostalgia dances across their eyes. In another, the adults are teasing each other just like they did when they were my age, still just a bunch of rowdy cousins that grew up living houses apart. My generation floats amongst groups, dodges dreaded personal questions from adults and reconnect with each other like best friends.

Our Thanksgiving is not what you see in movies, nor read about in books. We're wild, loud and obnoxious. But I have never loved a group of people more, and I couldn't imagine the holidays without them.