My family has always treated holiday planning like a spontaneous sport. Everything eventually works out, but not before we pay double for flights we could have booked weeks earlier in advance. At least my dad can rack up his Delta Airline credit card points (sorry dad). This year was no different; last week our family group chat texts went from planning an extended family reunion in D.C. to a frat house Thanksgiving break in San Diego. One chaotic group FaceTime later, my twin brother, older sister, dad and I finally settled on a destination for the holiday: the rocky mountains of Denver, Colorado. My older sister lives in the heart of the city, seconds from the Rockies’ stadium and a half an hour from the mountains. I dream of being curled up in her indigo-flowered sheets with her calico kitty, Cleo, purring on top of my stomach. 

Last Thanksgiving, though, the reunion came to my stomping grounds of Santa Barbara. I hosted the holiday in my cramped Isla Vista house, with my brother on the couch, my sister in my bed and my dad — uninterested in reliving his college years — choosing the comforts of a hotel in Goleta. Like most families, we have traditions. Unlike most families, however, none of ours involve a turkey. Half of us can’t stand stuffing, and the smell of gravy makes my brother sick. Past Thanksgiving spreads have consisted of tacos, pizza and even Chinese takeout. We prefer it this way; the low-stakes dinner paired with personal conversation instead of the shallow chatter that comes along when talking to your second cousin that you don’t really know.

In the spirit of keeping it classy (as classy as a college house can be) we decided on serving steak. Naturally, we waited until the night before Thanksgiving to go grocery shopping. Trader Joe’s was thoroughly ransacked — the neighboring Albertsons wasn’t much better. Lucky for us, turkey and cranberry sauce weren’t on the list anyway. By checkout, our shopping cart looked like a student’s fever dream of a holiday dinner: steaks, potatoes, bowtie pasta (the only shape left for mac and cheese) and four bottles of liquor. We looked at the desolate cart, sighed, and threw in another bottle of wine for safety measures. 

The meal itself, like almost every dinner the four of us have ever shared, ended up perfect in its own unruly way. My brother took care of the steaks, my dad made some rich cocktails and I whipped up the potatoes and mac. My sister sprawled out on the couch, occasionally asking if she could help, but she’s much better at providing entertainment while we cook. Her perfectly curated Spotify playlist of Kendrick, Taylor Swift, and everything in-between got us through the bulk of the cooking. The rest of the time was filled with my brother and dad watching the NFL (my sister and I allowed an hour or two of it being on in the living room). After a few glasses of wine and picking at a generously assembled charcuterie board, suddenly everything tasted elevated. Maybe it was the buzz, maybe the comfort of familiar company, but the steak was seared just right, the potatoes pillowy and the bowtie mac n’ cheese was as good as a bowtie mac can be. We huddled around my worn-out couch with the overflowing plates of food and we had previously labored on for hours. We ate and laughed and drank until we couldn’t anymore. That Thursday was probably one of my favorite nights that I’ve shared with my family. 

Jack, my brother, searing NY-strip steak and asparagus.

At the end of the day, it didn’t matter that our traditions were seemingly untraditional, or that the planning was last-minute, as always. I have a good feeling this Thanksgiving will be no different. I’m sure we’ll pile on top of each other in my sister’s two-bedroom apartment and run to her local grocery store at 10 P.M. Wednesday night. I’m even more sure that our stomachs will hurt more from laughing with each other than the homemade meal we managed to throw together. What matters is that familiar, chaotic rhythm of being together. It’s messy, it’s improvised and, somehow, it always feels like home.