I have two dining room tables. Each one is fashioned out of wood. Each one embraces a family. One table sits in my mother’s house in Maine, the other traversing many states, is placed in my father’s home in North Carolina. Although the faces at their respective tables vary greatly, the climates wholly diverse, the food and it’s recipes hailing from separate regions on the world, there is one thread that ties each of these tables together, one theme that is a constant in these dining rooms: my family.

I love Thanksgiving for two reasons: The first one being that my family draws closer together on this holiday, our busy lives pausing for one day, one night, one meal. The other, much to my chagrin, is the canned cranberry sauce my parents so lovingly and possibly begrudgingly buy for me.

It seems to me that as I have gotten older, the concept of family has faded from lead actor on stage to extra in the background. The ties that were once strong between my siblings and me are replaced by tentative “Hello’s” as we timidly try to find common ground between us, the imaginative, inventive games that once dictated our relationships long since grayed with time.

But this isn’t a bad thing. I see it as a phase that will pass when we all reach similar life checkpoints—when our financial worries are paired with our relationship problems and the leak in our apartments that has still yet to be fixed by our lazy super.

Then we can talk. But in the mean time, the dining room tables and the annual holiday season seem to bring out our loquacious sides, the garrulous and happy mouths that harbor insatiable appetites, the family bond that can only stem from kitchen angst, hectic preparation and the excessive expenditure of money. It’s what I love most about Thanksgiving.

My roommates and I have resolved to have our own Thanksgiving feast. A newsletter was sent around to American students informing us of the limited ways to obtain a turkey in Perugia. With a turkey only costing 40 Euro, we’ve decided to buy a bird and shove it in our non-functioning oven and see what comes out.

I will admit that I am completely in love with Perugia, Italy. I adore the locals, the food, the sporadic bursts of sunlight in November, the exstatic exclamations of life. But part of me is impossibly sad to be missing my favorite holiday. Part of it is the food because truly, there is NOTHING better than salted, sage turkey topped with cider and shallot gravy. There is nothing comparable to the lolling lumps of garlicky mashed potatoes or the steaming butternut squash and parsnip puree.

But the other part is the family. So, I guess this post really has no point, as most of my post never do. But I just want my family to know that I will miss them and their laughter and their stories on Thanksgiving. Though I’ve got Italy and pretty shoes and good smelling perfume and delicious Italian food, there really isn’t anything that I love more than you all!