Lots of food, lots of alcohol, and lots of loud laughter. That's how I would describe my Filipino Thanksgiving.

I was greeted with lots of warm smiles and handshakes. They welcomed me immediately. "Hi Michael! Welcome to our house!", "Michael! So good to meet you!", "Here Mike, have a beer!"

As I walked in, G slipped an arm around his grandmother. "Hey beautiful, how you doin'?"

"Oh stop it, I'm not beautiful," she shrugged.

"What? Are you kidding me? You'll always be beautiful!"

She beamed and walked off, head slightly higher than before.

G led me to the back patio, where the uncles huddled around a boiling pot of soup and several six-packs. A Corona was quickly attached to my hand.

"This is goat-head soup," one of them told me with a smirk. "Here, try some."

I stared down at the broth. They watched as I dipped my spoon in and sucked down the soup. "Mmmmm! Good!"

"They're fuckin' with you, that ain't goat-head soup," G assured me.

"Whatever it is, it's damn good," I replied. I sucked down another spoonful. The uncles smiled and collectively nodded.

I wandered back inside, in time for the big gathering and saying of Thanks before the meal. Once everyone gathered, G's father delivered a heartfelt speech of gratitude and remembrance.

Much more eloquent than Homer Simpson's version: "Good drink, good meat, good God, let's eat!"

G's grandfather was brought out in his wheelchair. He was presented a birthday cake the shape of a turkey. A big 95 was on it. 95 years old, damn!

He blew all but one candle out. One of his grandchildren brought out her son, his great-grandson, to help with the remaining candle. A quick wisp of baby spittle and the candle was out.

The feast was glorious. Overwhelmingly glorious, as a Thanksgiving feast should be. There was turkey, yam, potatoes, stuffing, cranberry salad, and lots of wine. Which meant that as soon as I got myself a plate of food, a glass of wine was quickly attached to my hand.

G's father sat next to me. "You know, he was in the war." He motioned towards G's grandfather. "World War II. Since they didn't allow minorities to be soldiers, he was a cook."

I marveled at the story. A World War II veteran. Celebrating his 95th birthday with his entire family, including a great-grandson. What a legacy.

The food was washed down with another table full of dessert. And oh, another glass of wine was quickly attached to my hand.

In the living room, several cousins brought out their guitars. Several aunts slumped on the comfy couches as their children played and sang to them.

Outside, the uncles returned to their goat-head soup vigil.

Around the television, the kids finished up Finding Nemo and turned on the karaoke machine. They latched onto the mike and belted out Ghostbusters.

"Who you gonna call?" shouted a little squeaky voice, "Ghostbusters!"

A fourth group huddled around a kitchen table. "Who wants to play poker?" G asked. Several cousins jumped in. I watched on, trying to get a feel for the psychology of the game. G won.

The night continued this way for hours. There were still lots of food, lots of alcohol, and lots of loud laughter from every nook and cranny of the house. I watched all of this while another Corona was quickly attached to my hand.

Thanksgiving ended with a full belly and thankful thoughts. And an extra helping of dessert.

Thankful thoughts: I'm thankful for friends like G who invited me to his family's house because I couldn't go to NY or LA to see family. And thank you to my other two friends who also extended offers to this Thanksgiving orphan.

Thanks G!

. . .

Have you ever experienced a Filipino Thanksgiving?