My Aunt Lily always hosted Thanksgiving in her humble apartment in the Bronx that she shared with her husband, Saverio, my mom’s brother. The adults would crowd into the kitchen and sip highballs, while the kids wreaked havoc in the apartment. There were the big cousins, Toni, Joanie and Daniel, then the middle cousins, myself and my sister, and the little cousins, Julie and John.

The big cousins had a rather sadistic streak when it came to games. They loved going through Aunt Lily’s closet and unearthing her fox fur coat, which had the heads attached complete with artificial beady eyes. The cousins would race around the apartment brandishing the coat and chasing the smaller kids, who were shrieking in horror. The game ended abruptly when Aunt Lily retrieved her coat and gave the big cousins an icy look that cut the festivities short.

Kids were rarely spanked in my family since the look served quite nicely as discipline. It consisted of a narrowing of the eyes and a grave expression that we all knew was a harbinger of things to come. Looks from my mom and the aunts were one thing, but when Uncle Danny, who had a notorious temper, stood up and narrowed his eyes at us, we instantly turned into angels.

After the fur coat was safely returned to the closet, the big kids invited us all to a card game in the living room. We were unaware that they could see our cards, since the cocktail table had a mirrored top. It took us a long time to realize why the older kids always won.

Finally it was time to eat, and the adults were seated at a table lovingly decorated with fine china and cloth napkins and sparkling wine glasses. The kids were relegated to a rickety bridge table that sported plastic cups and mismatched dishes. Havoc reigned at the kids’ table, since the adults ignored us in an effort to enjoy their meal.

We dutifully bowed our heads and thanked God for “these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty.” We didn’t know what bounty meant, but we were definitely on board with gifts. We had so much to be grateful for, although we didn’t realize it. We took everything for granted—our parents, our feasts,  our house, our faith. It was all as commonplace as the air we breathed.

Inevitably a little cousin would knock over a glass of milk, which would run like a river to the rug. Cranberry sauce would land on the rug and be stepped on. Still, there was always a great deal of laughter at both tables. The day was not perfect, of course, given the battles among the kids, the uncles falling asleep after dessert and the aunts discussing diets before the last slice of pie was devoured.

Still, the treasure trove of memories lasted even as the participants slowly dwindled. All the aunts and uncles are gone, and some of the cousins too, but there will always exist in my heart the sounds of the kids shrieking about the fur coat, the clink of glasses in the kitchen and the string bean fights. It was indeed a feast, featuring not just food, but family and love and laughter. God’s bounty truly overflowed in that tiny apartment in the Bronx in days long gone.