The two story, Long Island cape was just how I left it last spring. Aunt Lisa’s garden creeps in from the backyard. Not one inch of yard misses a flower. An eagerness to break free from the constraints of my car seat washes over me as I spy Grandpa through the window. The plastic “click” of the belt sounds. Mom unsuccessfully attempts to stop the speed demon from rushing the house.

Kindly leaving the boys to handle the suitcases, mom yanks the back of my shirt. Barking emerges from the depths of the sweet looking home. The oak door opens and two massive pitbulls are revealed, Lisa white-knuckling their leashes. Just one step through the doorway, I am bombarded with kisses from the two ferocious beasts. Grandma’s face welcomes us from over the railing.

Hours of reminiscing is marked by the setting sun. The sound of Grandpa’s old records waft in from the kitchen along with the smell of his cooking. I leave the herd of relatives in the narrow living room and head into the kitchen.

My ears are finally free from the thick New York accents. Weren’t any of them ever taught what an inside voice is? My eyes widen as pounds of angel hair pasta are set onto China dishes. Italian bread is sliced and stacked into a woven basket. Finally, the much anticipated crabs are removed from the pot.

The table is set with a golden topper, shell crackers handed out as if they are weapons. Grandpa is seated at the head of the table and the games begin.

The two pitbulls make their rounds, seeking the weakest of the table to steal food from. After a long battle, eyes turn towards my impressive stack of crab shells. It was clear who this year’s winner was.