The six of us don't all fit in one car. As much as I am reluctant to admit this, maybe it is time to trade the SUV in for a minivan, or at least something with a third row. So, without a larger car, we caravan to Tiffany's folk's house. My parents have been there before, but it's been awhile, so I lead the way for the twenty-or-so minute ride.

There are already lots of cars filling up their driveway by the time we arrive. My in-laws live on the outskirts of the city, so while houses are more densely built in their neighborhood than where we live, there is plenty of street parking. We pull into a space just a few houses down and my parents make a quick u-turn and park across the street.

"Do you think we need to wear our coats?" I ask Tiffany as I turn off the ignition. The kids can't wear their puffy cold-weather gear in their car seats, and it's not exactly easy to just slip a coat on and off their waving toddler arms.

She scrunches up her mouth to think. "No, probably not worth the hassle for such a short walk. Besides, it's not that cold. You can run out to preheat the car before we leave."

"Okay, sounds good." I open the door and get out. Tiffany is right. It's not that cold, especially because I am wearing a zippered sweater over a long-sleeved collared shirt and wool slacks. A coat would be overkill.

My parents cross the street to help us get the kids out. Of course, my dad has his bomber jacket on and his free hand is in his pocket. His other hand, which is gloved, holds a bottle of wine. I shake my head and laugh. Maybe they should move down to Florida after he retires.

"You got the kids? Let me grab those beautiful biscuits that you made," my mom offers.

"I have the wine," Dad adds, unnecessarily.

Together, the six of us walk up the stairs to Marty and Aileen's front porch. Before we reach the top step, the door flies open. "It's the Grahams!" announces Marty's booming voice. His enormous frame fills the doorway, and he steps back to usher us in from the chilly air. As we cross the threshold, we are greeted by the warm aroma of cooking turkey and the raucous laughter and cacophonous conversations of Tiffany's large family. Katherine's scruffy terrier-mix, Bullseye, runs to welcome us, jumping on and licking the kids.

"Bullseye, down, be nice to my babies," Katherine, with her flowing long auburn hair and wiry frame, strides over from where she had been setting the table in the dining room. "Hey guys!" she says with a huge grin and then squats down in front of Nora and Spencer and grabs Bullseye's collar. "He is almost as excited to see you as I am."

"Dog!" Nora yells.

"She likes dogs," Spencer elaborates.

We all laugh.

"Here, let me take that from you, Judy." Marty holds his hands out and my mother passes the tray of biscuits to him.

"We also brought wine," my dad awkwardly holds out the bottle that he is gripping.

"Thanks, Frank. And, good to see you," Marty says gregariously, but his hands are full and he does not take the bottle. "Happy Turkey Day!"

It's so discordant to see my father and Marty together in the same room. The hockey-obsessed macho jock and the math nerd. Brawn and brain.

Aileen comes out from the kitchen to greet us. Her apron is covered in flour dust and grease smudges, but her hair is impeccably coiffed and her makeup is freshly applied. "Frank! Judy! So glad you could make it! Please, please, come in, get comfy. Did Marty offer you a drink yet?"

"Of course, of course," Marty replies. "Let me put this tray down and then I'll get everyone's drink orders. Oh, Frank brought wine."

My dad just smiles and holds out the bottle again. This time, Aileen takes it.

A chorus of shouting pours out from the family room. Something must have happened in the football game. There isn't hockey on Thanksgiving Day. The big turkey show-down will be tomorrow. And, our local football team isn't playing today. Nonetheless, all of Tiffany's male relatives are glued to the television and are loudly disagreeing with one of the ref's calls.

Spencer and Nora squirm and want to be released to explore the rest of the house. "Where are the girls?" Tiffany asks, referring to her nieces.

"They're in your old room," Mary answers, stepping out of the kitchen with Sheila behind her, both wearing aprons. Mary's reads: "Kiss the Cook," and Sheila's has a picture of a wine bottle with the words: "Will Cook For Wine."

"Yeah, it's the only one of our bedrooms that hasn't been converted into a shit closet!" Sheila says with a laugh.

"One of the many benefits to being the baby." Tiffany shrugs. "Well, I think Spencer and Nora would love to say hello to their cousins."

"Cousins? Yay!" Spencer agrees and Tiffany leads the kids up the stairs to the second floor.

Then it's just me and my parents standing in the entryway opposite my in-laws. My mother, father, and I are all about the same height, and for a moment I feel like we are paper dolls, just cut-outs standing in some Rockwellian diorama.

But then my mom breaks the spell. "Can I do anything to help in the kitchen?" she offers. Katherine goes back to setting the table and Judy, Mary, and Sheila seem to absorb my mother into their orbit.

Then it's just me and my dad with Marty. My dad and I exchange a furtive glance. Neither of us has any interest in the game, yet that's where we are expected to hang out until dinner. The women are in the kitchen. The kids are upstairs. Men watch football.

Marty hands us both bottles of Rolling Rock beer and we make our way towards the jeering. The family room has a large brown leather sectional facing a huge flat-screen TV. A floor lamp in the corner casts yellow light on the faded pink-striped wallpaper. Both of Tiffany's brother-in-laws, her Uncle Ray, and one man I don't recognize, are sitting with their elbows on their knees, watching the action intensely. I wonder if they have money on the game.

"Are you blind?" Chris–Mary's husband, fifty-ish with dark Italian features and a bushy greying beard–yells at the screen. Then he sees my father and me trailing Marty and he stands to greet us. "You're not missing much of a game. I think all the refs need corrective lenses. Oh, this is my brother, Jeff, not sure if you've met before." He gestures to the man I didn't know. Jeff nods hello. With the introduction, I can see the resemblance. Same olive complexion and deep-set eyes.

After the initial greetings, my father and I sit down on the sectional. It's a large enough couch, but with four wide-framed men already sitting, it feels cozy. Marty takes his seat on the well-worn recliner like a king on his throne.

I do my best to follow the game, but without knowing the players or having any affiliation with the teams, it's hard to feel the excitement of the plays. The teams make first downs, have passes intercepted, fumble the ball, kick field goals. The score slowly changes. I've watched enough football in my life to understand the basic rules and ways to score, but that doesn't mean much.

Luckily, there is quite the spread of appetizers on the coffee table. Stuffed mushrooms. A bowl of roasted chestnuts. A tray with various types of bread and cheese. I take a mushroom and pop it into my mouth. It's warm and savory with a hint of sage. I nudge my dad to take one, too.

A little while later, I'm relieved when a small body tackles me from behind.

"Hey Spence, you're here to watch the game?" I grab him and flip him onto my lap.

"I hope you haven't spoiled your appetite," Tiffany warns. "Dinner is ready."

The other guys rise slowly, reluctantly muting the game, so my father and I are the first men in the dining room. There are two tables set up. Mary's three daughters and Sheila's Emily are already seated at a smaller folding table in the room's periphery. I almost wish that I could join them. The main dining room table has been extended longer than I've ever seen it, and there are fourteen places set around the long rectangle: one at each head and six down each side. One seat has a booster for Spencer, plus there is a high chair set up for Nora. Although the place settings aren't as elaborate, and there are no servants in sight, it reminds me of a scene from Downton Abbey. I can only pray that the dinner conversation will be just as refined.

The meal starts off politely enough. The kids are squirmy, but contained. Nora smacks her tray and Spencer tugs at the tablecloth. But the adults are relaxed and happy. Everyone has wine, we say a very secular-version of grace, and then pass around the food, piling our plates high with turkey and all the fixings.

After the eating has slowed and the wine has made its way into our bloodstreams, the dinner chatter turns to politics. "Anyone watch the debate last week?" Chris asks, referring to the fifth democratic primary debate.

Jeff responds quickly, "How many debates does there need to be? Did we really learn anything new? Honestly, let's just get to the voting already."

"Anyone would be better than that cheeto-in-chief we have now. What's there to debate?" Sheila jumps in.

Almost everyone at the table nods in agreement.

"Sure, sure, that's what everyone around these parts thinks," Marty adds. "But Trump has a real base. Not just any of these guys could beat him."

"Well, who do you like, Dad?" Katherine asks.

"Honestly, I like Booker. He has a clear message, is a good speaker, is experienced."

"Not Warren?" Sheila asks. "She has the strongest answers on the economy."

"A woman won't beat Trump," Marty says decisively.

Tiffany and her sisters don't agree and make their opinions known.

"I like that Pete Buttigieg," my mother offers. "He's progressive, but not radical, has a military background, and a midwestern base."

"The gay?" Uncle Ray sneers. "America's not going to have a gay president."

"Yeah, and I agree. Too bad, too, because I like his ideas," Chris says to a murmur of consent.

Tiffany shifts uncomfortably in her chair. I hope for a kid to create a distraction and change the subject. Instead, Marty adds his opinion, "I don't really care what two guys do in private, you know? None of my business. But being the president isn't exactly a private job. I think it'd make America look weak to have a gay president, and I'm not alone in thinking that."

"Oh my God, dad!" both Sheila and Katherine shriek. Mary and Aileen roll their eyes. But Tiffany is quiet. Too quiet.

My mother, however, is not about to keep her lips sealed. "Really, Marty? I'm surprised, especially given how... accepting you are." She gestures generally, but I can feel her on the precipice of saying something more specific.

I notice my father down the last sip in his glass. "Is there more wine?" He asks no one in particular, probably thinking about that bottle he brought.

Heat is rising in my chest. "Spencer, are you all done?" I ask, maybe a tad too loudly.

"Down! I want down." he demands.

"Daaaaan!" Nora agrees.

"Maybe it is time to move this conversation away from the table," Aileen prompts. She must feel the unease in the air.

With that, Thanksgiving Dinner draws to an end. Thankfully, nothing too disastrous happened; however, like my father, I'm in desperate need of more wine.