The Comfort in the Chaos

As we head into a holiday weekend, I'm struck by how chaos can sometimes be comfort in disguise.

Sam enjoying his youngest Grandson on a random holiday.

Last week, my father-in-law, Sam, passed away after a long fight with Alzheimer’s. It’s a strange kind of heartbreak — the kind where sadness and relief show up together. Relief that he’s finally at peace. Relief that my wife, my sister-in-law, and my mother-in-law no longer have to brace themselves for his confusion about where he was, who he was with, or any of the hundred small cruelties this disease brings. Now they finally have the space — and the quiet — to grieve the man they actually knew.

And while I could easily go deep on loss and memory, I think Sam would appreciate something a little more grounded in real life — namely, the fact that Thanksgiving is here.

Sarah doing her best work to capture the crew.

Because if we’re being honest, Thanksgiving is a peculiar tradition. It’s the annual ritual where we cram too many relatives into one house, spend hours overcooking a giant bird nobody admits to liking, and end up arguing about football, politics, or whatever random feud someone decides to resurrect.

Traditions are handed down in many ways. Here, young Matilda curated one of her mom's many interesting (and oddly satisfying) dishes!

But that’s what we do. Planning starts weeks ahead. Auntie is bringing the Old Lady Salad. Nook is on green beans, a suspicious rice dish, and a ham for reasons that remain unclear.

Sarah handles the mashed potatoes and baked corn.

And me? Somewhere along the line, I accidentally cooked a turkey that wasn’t dry, and now I’m “the turkey guy.” A badge of honor I never asked for, but now proudly wear.

(Cheat Code): I’ve since learned that spatchcocking and smoking it on the Traeger is the only way I stand a fighting chance of pulling off a moist bird — and yes, I’ll still complain about it for effect.

For years, Sam’s wife, Sue (Nook), would bring filet and shrimp because turkey wasn’t happening for him. And almost like clockwork, she’d overcook the filet just enough to draw out his signature line: “God damnit, Sue.” Never angry (maybe just a smidge), never mean (perhaps a tinge) — just their own little love language.

Sam, Nook, and their cherrished grandchildren, last Thanksgiving.

Eventually, I started cooking the filets myself, mostly because I couldn’t watch the man suffer through another well-done holiday. I just wanted to lift that burden a little… and save the conflict for the conversation.

Turns out, every family has its version of this — I grew up around my own brand of holiday comfort and chaos.

I remember being a kid, squeezed into some holiday gathering — maybe Thanksgiving, maybe a birthday — at my Great Uncle Joe’s house. Uncle Joe had one of the OG Man caves. His basement was outfitted with a regulation pool table, a dartboard, and, of course, a full bar where the men in the family would sit for hours, arguing like it was a competitive sport.

I remember asking my mom why they were always yelling at each other. And she just shrugged and said, “That’s how they show love.”

I found it strange then. Still find it odd now. But every time that memory surfaces, it’s met with a wry smile, because she wasn’t entirely wrong. For all of the noise and conviction that each person was right (about what, I don’t know), there’s something warm in it — something familiar that said, “you belong here.” And as I reflect, I was always excited to go to Uncle Joe’s.

Family is messy, familiar, comforting, and chaotic. And when someone familiar is gone, all of that hits differently.

And maybe that’s why all of these memories — Sam and Sue’s yearly filet standoff, Uncle Joe’s basement battles — the affection disguised as yelling — are all bubbling to the surf

ace right now. Families are built on these odd little rituals. The stuff that makes no sense to anyone outside the circle. That stuff somehow becomes a backdrop for your life.

And when someone leaves the circle, the backdrop changes.

This Thanksgiving will still have the usual chaos — the “Old Lady Salad,” last-minute kitchen emergencies, a questionable rice dish, and the turkey I never volunteered to be responsible for but apparently am. Everyone will assume their roles like they always do.

Except Sam won’t be in his.

There won’t be a Filiet to rescue.

There won’t be a signature line.

There won’t be the banter back and forth (our own affection disguised as conflict).

But here’s the thing: the chaos is still good. The traditions are still ours. And woven into all of the food, noise, and the certainty that something will go off the rails, there’s a deep sense of gratitude. Not for the perfect holiday — that never has nor will exist — but for the people who made these strange, loud, comforting traditions what they are.

Even the ones we’re missing.

Especially the ones we’re missing.