When Chris Ciaccia thinks about Thanksgiving, the Yonkers, NY, native pictures a turkey, stuffing and drinks — plus a dozen guests draped in colorful linens to fit the “Last Supper”-themed shindig at his place on the big day.
The irreverent take on the American holiday is all part of the plan for the single 31-year-old, who gathers with his closest pals for an annual “Friendsgiving” fête, always with an unusual theme, year after year.
While the family-oriented Thanksgiving gets all the glory, Friendsgiving continues to grow as groups of friends find ways to celebrate one last time before they all depart the city to return to their respective hometowns and endure parental nagging, prying questions and election feuds.
This year will mark Ciaccia’s 13th such celebration in his apartment. The theme this time? A nod to the Chevy Chase classic “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation,” complete with ugly sweaters, garlands and ornaments.
“Everyone brings a dish, prepared ways I’ve never had,” says Ciaccia. “[Plus, it’s] good to catch up with people I don’t see often.”
For some, Friendsgiving replaces the actual holiday entirely.
“My family, they’re lovely people, but I think I can make a better dinner than them,” says Tom Carpenter, a 48-year-old lawyer who lives in Kensington and has been hosting a version of the dinner since the early ’90s.
This year, Carpenter suspects his guests are grateful to avoid awkward political discussions with ideologically opposed family.
“There certainly are friends who, rather than having an uncomfortable conversation with family about politics, would rather be with friends who they have more in common with,” says Carpenter of this season’s fraught political climate.
Each year, revelers gather at Carpenter’s home, which he shares with his husband of five years, David Slivken.
For their hard-core followers, it’s just not Thanksgiving without Slivken’s famous corn casserole. When a dear friend was diagnosed with leukemia and received a bone-marrow transplant at Sloan Kettering just days before the annual get-together, her only goal was to make it to Friendsgiving.
“She kept saying, ‘I need to be out by Thanksgiving,’ specifically because she wanted David’s corn casserole,” says Carpenter. The friend did make it to the table, but her stomach was still too sensitive for the feast. This year, she’s asked Slivken to make double the casserole.
“The fact that so many people come back year after year is a great feeling,” adds Carpenter. “They say, ‘Don’t tell my family, but secretly I’d rather be with you.’ ”
Others pals have found ways to keep the good times coming after the turkey’s been carved.
They say, ‘Don’t tell my family, but secretly I’d rather be with you.’
In Crown Heights, 29-year-old lab manager Rebecca and her friends have started an annual tradition to help knock out the bountiful holiday leftovers.
“We had so much food left over, that we planned a party a few days after Thanksgiving,” says Rebecca, who asked to go by her first name for privacy reasons.
The Miami native started her Friendsgiving practice five years ago, when flying home was too costly and she found an enclave of fellow NYC transplants in the same boat. The food was so plentiful on the day of, everyone gathered for a second Friendsgiving days later to feast on leftovers.
And while their friends continue to get married, have children and threaten to dismantle the tradition, die-hard fans have no plans of letting go.
“I don’t think we’d ever skip a year,” says Ciaccia. “As time goes on, it’s getting harder, but we stick to it.”