Tacchino Fest
A Roman Tradition 30 Years in the Making
Nina dishes on her favorite tradition in Italy
If you had told me back in Cleveland (daughter of Italian immigrants, raised straddling two cultures) that someday I’d be celebrating Thanksgiving in Rome with a flock of Italian friends who consider it their holiday too, I’m not sure I would have believed you.
But Italy has a way of folding you in, of blurring the line between what you came with and what you build here. And so, for almost 30 years now, Thanksgiving has become one of my most cherished days of the year. . . even though the average Roman has never roasted a whole turkey in their life.
My Very First Italian Thanksgiving (Featuring a Turkey Named Ricardo and One Confused Butcher)
My inaugural Thanksgiving in Italy was in Campobasso, a small town in Molise where I lived early on. I wanted to introduce my Italian friends to the holiday I loved most—one centered entirely on cooking, sharing, talking, and lingering at the table. Really, it’s a holiday made for Italians.
Everyone told me, “Ordina il tacchino in anticipo.” Order the turkey early. Fair enough.
So I marched into the butcher shop and confidently requested a 13-kilo (nearly 30 pounds) turkey to feed about 25 people.
My first turkey, and every one since, has been called “Ricardo”
The butcher paused, tilted his head, and asked the most Italian question possible: “Perfetto. How many pieces shall I cut it into?”
I nearly shouted, “No, no, no!” A whole bird. Uncut. The concept was. . . foreign.
But he obliged, we roasted it whole, and my friends devoured every last bite—astonished that a bird that large could fit into an oven. (Truthfully, it barely did.)
That first feast set something in motion. I’ve hosted Thanksgiving every year since—except during my Naples years, when my apartment didn’t have an oven. That led to what my friends affectionately named Tacchino Fest (Turkey Fest), an itinerant Thanksgiving that rotated from house to house like the medieval papacy wandering Italy without a permanent home.
Rome, and Finding My Italian Family
Now Rome is home—properly, fully, joyfully home. My Thanksgiving table here has grown into a tradition that pulls people in from every corner of the country.
Friends arrive from Bologna, Naples, Milan, Basilicata—sometimes with a train’s worth of cheeses, wines, or dolci tucked into their bags. There are always a few new faces, and always a couple of “special guests.” This year, it was my mom and brother. Watching them meet my Roman tribe—the people who have become my everyday family—was the most meaningful part of the day.
Because here’s the truth: Italy has given me another family. One built over decades of shared meals, laughter, misunderstandings, late-night bike rides through Roman alleys, and the kind of conversations that only happen after four hours at the dinner table.
At Last: A Butcher Who Gets Me
A Thanksgiving cook needs one ally above all others: a trustworthy butcher. In Italy, we call this your macellaio di fiducia—your butcher “of trust.”
After years of searching, I finally found mine here in Rome. He prepares my turkey with more reverence than some Americans do, proud to be part of this strange, joyful, foreign-but-not-really holiday.
Every year he asks, “Tutto bene? Stessa cosa dell’anno scorso?” All good? Same as last year?
And every year I nod, because at this point our choreography is perfect.
Thanksgiving in Rome
Thanksgiving, Italian-Style
Over time, my Roman Thanksgiving has become a beautiful blend of cultures:
The turkey is American-sized, but surrounded by Italian contorni (sides).
There’s stuffing, yes—but also lasagna, because. . . Italy.
The wine is local (and excellent).
Someone always insists on bringing tiramisù.
And the table talk flows in two languages, sometimes switching mid-sentence.
It’s no longer a novelty. It’s a ritual: a moment when my two worlds sit down together, raise a glass, and feel deeply, deliciously, like one.
Why I Still Love It After All These Years
Thanksgiving marries perfectly with Italian culture. Here, meals are meant to be shared, savored, stretched out for hours. Food is memory. Hospitality is an art. And gratitude isn’t loud or performative, it’s woven quietly into the way people care for one another.
Salute to Tacchino Fest!
Every year as I look around my Roman table—at friends who have become family, at traditions we’ve created together, at dishes that travel across oceans and cultures—I’m reminded why I stayed in Italy far longer than the one year I promised myself.
Because life here, like Thanksgiving itself, is about presence, connection, and long, delicious moments around the table.
And really, what more could any of us ask for?
I’m a sucker for great gatherings., and have curated a few of my own for you all in 2026. I invite you to join my table in Italy, to share delicious moments, and savor meaningful connection. I hope you’ll join me in Southern Italy in May, or in Sicily in June. . . or both!
