The holidays are almost here, and our home is already buzzing with festive vibes. The tree is up and lit, the pizzelle batter is prepped, and the aroma of Italian wedding soup fills the air. But let’s be honest, Dad was right, the magic doesn’t really start until Sinatra is crooning in the background.
In that spirit, I’m sharing a blog post straight from the pages of my book, Covered in Flour—a nostalgic glimpse of Thanksgiving with the Pozzi family in 1968. It’s a heartfelt look at how our Italian-American traditions made the holiday truly unforgettable. I hope this slice of our world brings a little warmth to your Thanksgiving season and fills you with the same joy that these memories bring to me.
THANKSGIVING WITH THE POZZI’S
NOVEMBER 1968
Family gatherings at our place are the stuff of legend, and this Thanksgiving with Dad’s side of the family is a prime sampling of the Pozzi experience. You can't miss it—we're the house with the purple "P." As "Arrivederci Roma" finishes playing, the living room subtly changes, embodying the true spirit of Thanksgiving. It’s a time for expressing gratitude—a chance to focus on what’s most important: the heartfelt celebration of life, love, and tradition. We do this with a house full of family, delicious cuisine, laughter, and shared stories.
The door opens repeatedly, welcoming smiling family members, each bringing prized dishes. Aunt Nina enters first, presenting a mouth-watering date nut cake and trays of tempting cannoli. Her eyes sparkle with delight, mirroring Dad's, as she says, "Oh, just wait until you taste this!" Little Anna Marie and Sofie giggle and hide behind their hands, catching her infectious excitement.
Uncle Stefano and Aunt Angela follow, their fresh bread and cream puffs causing Dad to embrace them warmly, laughter filling the room alongside the melody of "Come Prima." Aunt Julie's entrance is grand, bearing delicious eggplant and chicken Parmesan. As "O Sole Mio" plays, she kisses Sandra and me, bringing smiles to our faces.
Grandpa Pozzi walks in leisurely, the silent rock of our family, carrying his cherished panna cotta with a soft grin playing on his lips. “Grandpa!” I call out and gravitate towards him for a hug and kiss. “Ah, Carlito,” he murmurs in a low voice as his grin swells, revealing the silent joy he harbors in his heart. Though his face is often unshaven and rugged, it's his inherent kindness that truly defines his beauty, unmistakable to all who know him.
With "Mambo Italiano" playfully serenading the room, it's time for Aunt Michelle's entrance. Swinging her hips to the rhythm of the music, with a radiant smile lighting up her face, she presents her gifts: trays bearing homemade gnocchi and rich lasagna radiating delicious smells so thick you can taste it. Before the food finds its way to the table, she performs a remarkable gymnastic feat, managing to bestow kisses as she moves through the room upon practically everyone with fluid agility. The entire execution—the intoxicating aromas from her dishes, the seamless dancing and kissing with lively music—creates an enchanting score that fills all five senses.
The massive table is a display of culinary talent, showcasing ravioli, salads, and spaghetti alla carbonara, with a golden turkey at the center, nodding to American Thanksgiving traditions amidst our Italian feast. Each dish and music note brings a special memory. As we laugh and enjoy Italian music, we hug, kiss, and toast to celebrate our joyful crowd.
Dad claims the spotlight, his voice rising above the chatter, beckoning all ears to listen. His stories are rollercoasters of life’s unpredictable and exhilarating adventures, drawing gasps, chuckles, and shakes of the head from the family surrounding him. Each story is more outrageous, vivid, and implausible than the one preceding it, taking us on a ride filled with suspense, surprise, and undeniable delight.
The most magical part of it all isn’t the cascade of laughter that follows, the wide-eyed amazement visible on the younger ones’ faces, or the knowing, nostalgic smiles shared amongst the elders. It’s the unspoken, unanimous understanding that every word escaping Dad’s lips, as fantastical as it might seem, is rooted in the undeniable truth of his experiences. “So, I gave him a taste of his own medicine,” Dad announces with finality, “and put the hose right through his window…”
With quiet, unobtrusive grace, Mom moves through the room, scanning each guest to ensure a sense of comfort. Her gaze is like a warm, invisible blanket wrapping around everyone, offering solace and attentive care without uttering many words.
“Have you had enough to eat, Aunt Julia?” The concern in Mom’s voice is genuine, searching Aunt Julia's face for any sign of discomfort or need. Mom stands on the balls of her feet, poised and ready to dart towards the kitchen like an Olympic runner if the slightest hint of hunger is detected.
“Can I get anyone more wine?” The offer hangs in the room, an open-ended invitation for anyone to voice their needs, no matter how small or trivial they may seem. Satisfied, as eyes around the room express contentment and glasses are gently waved off, Mom retreats to her chair, the day's weight of hosting lightly settling on her shoulders. While she sits, there's an alertness to her posture, a declaration that she's there, present, and attentive for anyone, at any moment.
In the interim of settled glasses and contented sighs, her eyes find Dad. It’s a lock of gazes filled with years of understanding, layers of shared laughter and private jokes, a silent language spoken between irises and the crinkles around them. There's affection there, deep and steadfast, as she watches him rise to spin yet another tale. They are happiest when they are together. Dad isn’t merely her husband; he is the counterpart to her narrative.
Mom’s complexity begins to unveil itself. She is not just the silent caretaker and hostess; she's a repository of tales untold, a witness to the life they've constructed together, bit by bit, story by story. There’s a quiet strength and an unspoken promise of steadfastness, reflecting the depth of her love and the multiplicity of roles—mother, partner, career woman, confidante, and the silent architect of the familial warmth radiating through the room. As Dad begins his next show, Mom leans back and becomes more than the anchor; she is the silent heartbeat of the gathering, pulsing with love and life, with a quiet, unyielding strength.
Here, amidst the clinks of cutlery and the murmur of rustling, she finds her place, her moment of quiet joy as she awaits the laughter and nods of agreement Dad's tale is bound to summon. In these stories of shared memories, she sees not just the man she married but the entire room, the family, their joint history, and the love that binds them tightly together. And in this loving observation, Mom herself turns out to be the most integral part of the tapestry—the gentle but indispensable force holding everything together with a smile soft as moonlight and eyes full of unsaid truths.