A multi-car pile up clogged the interstate, choking traffic and halting the arrival of various cousins and kin at my aunt’s Harnett County home.

Early on, two other aunts squared off, angry that they’d brought the same dish, and battled for precious frontline space to display their glutinous casseroles.

An uncle fought his own prejudices as he eyed an adult cousin’s biracial girlfriend and little girl with a mix of quiet outrage and resigned confusion.

By noon a creeping run ambled up my pantihose, and my “FROM SCRATCH” moussaka (which I had to call a vegetable casserole for anyone to try it) had cooled to a deflated, gummy mess.

I fought on.

When you think about it, family reunions can be like a war, especially during the holidays when even farflung relatives scamper in to love you, pamper you and find out if you got that promotion.

Around the dinner table troops choose sides, watching for the occasional landmines: “Don’t be asking about cousin so-in-so’s drug problems, you know she’s still at that special house.” “Yes, that is her third husband, and she’s really a little touchy about it.” “We all know he’s meaner than Satan, but if his mamma won’t control him, who are we to try?”

Relief comes in the form of sweet tea and frozen summer vegetables and smoked ham and various deep-fried concoctions that remind me why Okinawans have the longest life expectancy and not the American Southerner.

At least my mother’s family, whose reunion I was attending, knows how to cook.

A family of sisters, they are large women who take up space — both in the literal and metaphorical senses.

Their strengths and flaws have shaped me.

After lunch, as the 30-plus of us gathered around a store-bought tree, I realized how many of the aunts are grandmothers now.

My cousins’ children tore through their presents in a third-generation frenzy and were out the door in 10 minutes flat to fire toy guns and see “if the doll-baby can fly.”

I watched the kids play and saw glimpses of my own childhood memories in their tow-headed faces.

My memories are linked with those of their parents — my own cousins — who were a constant circle of comfort and camaraderie during my youth.

Hard to believe that we’re the adults now. Hard to believe that Cousin Keaira is the harried mother of two and not the rebellious teen who could perfectly feather my bangs.

Hard (and scary) to see the oldest aunts slipping into that time of life when they are the ones who need a little help.

But it’s how it is, this cycle, and in it I like my dependable place.

Not that I stay there all the time. I’m a fan of a mobile society, a proponent of “getting away.”

But coming back isn’t bad either.

The holidays always get me to thinking these fuzzy thankful thoughts of family — it lasts a few weeks until someone makes me mad.

Maybe this year I can carry the gratitude further and instead of making new resolutions for the things I “need,” take heed from philosopher Sheryl Crow’s transcendental words:

“It’s not having what you want. It’s wanting what you’ve got.”

What I’ve got is family.

A crazy, dysfunctional, wonderful family.