One of the wildest stories of my crazy life is how I finally found the family where I belong.

Not long after I moved to Austin to be with Tracie (good move!), a man named Marty Levy started calling me from Houston. I knew who he was — my father’s first cousin. Beyond that, he and his family were strangers to me. That’s because he and my father stopped speaking in the early 1980s when I was a teenager.

As it turns out, Marty and his family like fine dining. Before long, I was commuting to Houston every week for one of the best gigs that I’ve ever had. It was thanks to Marty, a personal friend of Tony Vallone, that I began working with the legendary Texas restaurant Tony’s. The job and the Levys are why we moved here to Houston, a city that I love.

Over the years, the Levy and (Texas) Parzen families have shared countless meals and holidays. We have a lot in common (music, food, wine, academia) and we genuinely love hanging out and caring for one another.

Let’s face it: my San Diego family has never liked me. I used to be close to my older brother. That ended when he became a lawyer more than 30 years ago. My little brother and his wife have shunned me since college. In the run-up to our mother’s death, they seemed to want to have a relationship. But it ultimately emerged that they wanted me to side with them against my older brother. Nice, right? No dice.

Why is my original nuclear family so messed up? I attribute the fracture to the black cloud that has followed us in the wake of horrific crimes committed by our father. It’s not easy to love your own family, I guess, when your dad is featured in the local paper for being a prolific asshole.

Tonight the Levys are coming over for Passover. There will be nearly 20 of us breaking matzos together. It’s a miracle. I came to Texas for Tracie. But Texas gave me the family that loves me. Man, I’m one lucky son of a gun to have escaped the misery of Parzen family California. Gut Yontif! Happy Passover! I’m finally home.