A special essay by NJ My Way contributor Pamela Principe-Golgolab

I grew up in an Italian family where holidays meant sitting for hours at the gilded table that extended from the dining room out into the living room in a long Brooklyn duplex. The adults sat at the head of the table and the ages trickled down to the “kiddie table,” where you stayed even into your twenties unless someone passed on or, like my husband, found favor with an elder family member who just had to have him near.

Meals began with the antipasto, then soup, then pasta and meatballs, and concluded with the debut of the “bird” with all the trimmings.

The women did the dishes by hand while catching up on the latest gossip and the men watched football, discussed politics or just snuck off for a nap, while the cousins played or spat about the latest and greatest things in their lives.

Eventually I took over the tradition, having Thanksgiving at our house or catering the entire meal when we went to the in-laws.

So, yes, it was weird when my Polish aunt, who had hosted holidays in a small kitchen for years and enjoyed my feast on many occasions, said, “Let’s spend this Thanksgiving at a restaurant.”

While the idea of “no cooking and no cleaning” seemed good, it was still odd. There was no list of things to do, no ordering of the bird, no waiting in line shopping for the trimmings, no marathon baking or cleaning the house to the point that no one could move without a wry look from me, Swiffer in hand

When my sons woke Thanksgiving morning, they said it was too quiet.  And yes, it was, yet peaceful in its own eerie way as we had our morning coffee and leisurely enjoyed breakfast while staring at the cold idle stove that by now should have been stuffed with a bird perfectly seasoned and enjoying its long warm sleep.

Finally, we ventured off to the restaurant, where we joined our family and more than 200 other guests for a fabulous buffet feast. It had it all—from the carved turkey and ham with fixings to seafood, chicken and leg of lamb.  Definitely more than what we could have cooked and so much more than what was served during the original Thanksgiving meal. We clinked our glasses, toasted our aunt for making the reservations, enjoyed our meal, then gathered our belongings to leave.

And as we hugged and kissed outside, my aunt pronounced the immortal words: “Are you coming back to my house?”

We all smiled and said yes. And as if …we already knew.

When we pulled in, the trunks opened and out came the pies, the cakes, the wine, and the munchies.  While the ladies piled into her cramped kitchen, putting out glasses and plates and opening up folding chairs, the kids and the guys ventured off to the little TV room to watch the game and, as my Dad says, “catch 40 winks.”

We chatted, we laughed, we caught up, the doorbell rang, more friends arrived. And all the while, I just kept thinking—would I go to a restaurant again for Thanksgiving? 

Probably. As long as we head to a home afterwards, clamoring around the table with family and friends.