I’m jealous of my friends whose families live in far off places so they get to spend Thanksgiving with their friends. My Israeli dad clearly feels the same way because a couple years ago he got tired of spending Thanksgiving with his own extended family, and decided it was the new family tradition to hang out with his Israeli friends and talk about soccer.

When I said, “If you want to do Thanksgiving with your friends, I’m going to go do Thanksgiving with my friends,” he looked like I’d just put an arrow in his back.

“But it’s Thanksgiving! You spend it with family!” he said, starting to get worked up.

“But we’re not spending it with family. We’re spending it with 3 Israeli couples you met last year at the gym and whose kids I barely know,” I tried to argue.

“Me and mom are family! You fucking crazy! Fuck you!” he shouted, already in full-on Israeli shout attack.

This conversation was followed 2 days later by the traditional conciliatory call from my mom. In whispered tones she pleaded “Danny, it’s so important to us. Please just come for my sake.”

When I still was hesitant to come, my mom pulled her last ace in the hole; her voice quivered a little, letting me know I could either enjoy Thanksgiving or make my mother cry. What’s it gonna be sucka? You wanna make your momma cry over a lil’ old meal? Uhhhh, I guess not-

And, just like when the Indians didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with the Pilgrims but got guilted into it by their mom, that’s how the tradition of Israeli Thanksgiving was started.

Like any good traditional feast there are sections to the meal.

First we start with the three questions, “So are you married/working/in school?” Which the congregation responds with a hymnal “That’s nice” [to the tune of Ameeen]

Then we say a prayer of thanks while I begin to have a sneezing fit from my cat allergies.

Then the men all break out their new Arab-People-Be-Crazy routine that they’ve been working on all year.

“When’s the only time you can spit in a Palestinian woman’s face?”

“When her mustache is on fire!”

ZING- nice one Shimala.

Now it’s on to the meal itself. What an Israeli Thanksgiving feast lacks in stuffing, corn or mashed potatoes, it more than makes up for in humus, pickles and chest hair.

Then it’s quickly on to dessert, where the Israeli sweet tooth can shine. There’s not a pumpkin or pecan in sight, but no complaints here.

And now for the traditional displaying of the gadgets. This year it’s a new Nintendo wii. Next year my dad hopes to wow everyone with a laser turkey carver. I don’t put it past him.

The men go off and talk about footballers with names like Ronoldo or Kaka and the women clean up and yenta about Jewish people who are dating non-Jewish people. I grab my coat, head outside, light up my pre-rolled “family dinner joint,” and begin walking home through the suburbs. I look in all the windows at the other families having their own dysfunctional Thanksgiving traditions and I am thankful that at least I’m not missing much elsewhere.