Cozy Nights and New Traditions

It’s never too late to start a new holiday tradition.

There’s something about December evenings that invites a little dreaming. Maybe it’s the way the lights twinkle across a quiet room, or how the fire crackles just loudly enough to remind you that warmth is not only possible,  it’s right here. Or maybe it’s simply the fact that we finally slow down long enough to hear ourselves think. And sometimes what we think is, “Why on earth haven’t I started making my own Christmas candy?”

That was my thought this week,  unexpected and rather amusing, considering the last time I tried making candy I was twelve and the result glued itself permanently to my mother’s good saucepan. (She forgave me sometime around 1969.) But nostalgia is a powerful thing, especially at Christmas. And candy,  real, old-fashioned candy,  has a way of unlocking doorways in memory we didn’t even realize had been painted shut.

So let me take you on a little tour of the sweets that made my childhood holidays sparkle. If you grew up in the same era, you may just taste them again as you read.

There was rock candy, those glittering sugar crystals that looked like something you’d find in a cave guarded by elves. You’d hold one up to the light, mesmerized by its sparkle… right before crunching it into oblivion. And then the baby ribbons and pillows,  tiny works of art with swirls, stripes, and centres that surprised you every time. They felt so delicate you almost hated to eat them. Almost.

And who could forget the straws, chips, and waffles,  funny little shapes that made absolutely no sense, yet made perfect sense because they tasted like Christmas. You could pour a handful into your mittened hand, stand on the porch, and feel like you were feasting on pure winter magic.

Then there were the masterpieces: pinwheels, Cut Rock, and those intricate candies with tiny pictures inside,  flowers, holly berries, or scenes so detailed you needed to hold them close just to admire them. Someone, somewhere, had the steady hands and saintly patience to create those. Bless them.

And oh, the Divinity Candy. As a child, I thought heaven probably tasted exactly like that,  soft, cloud-like, and impossibly sweet. Then came the Gloria Mix, a bag full of mystery and delight, each piece a gamble you were thrilled to take. Add in Peppermint Sticks pushed down into the centre of fresh oranges,  an odd pairing on paper but an absolute masterpiece of flavour,  and you have yourself a full sensory symphony.

And of course, the royalty of Christmas candy:
• Ribbon Candy,  so thin and delicate you could snap it just by breathing on it.
• Marzipan,  little fruits crafted with such care you almost felt guilty biting into them. Almost.
• Old-Fashioned Fudge Trio,  because no one could agree on just one flavour.
• Butter Toffee,  the kind that threatened your dental work but was worth every risk.
• Chocolate Mints,  soft, elegant, and gone within twenty minutes of arriving in the house.

These weren’t just candies. They were moments,  tiny time capsules packed with laughter, wool sweaters, and the sound of relatives calling out, “Who ate all the ribbon candy?” (No one ever admitted it, but you know it was Uncle Joe.)

And now? Now I find myself longing for the fun of creating something sweet in my own kitchen. Not because I need more sugar in my life,  believe me, gravity is already working overtime,  but because the act itself feels like a gift. A new tradition, born out of old memories.

That’s the beautiful thing about being our age: we’ve lived enough life to know traditions aren’t fixed in stone. They’re meant to evolve, grow, adapt,  and even appear out of nowhere on a quiet December night when we suddenly decide that this year, we’re making candy. Or baking gingerbread. Or hosting a board-game night. Or starting a Christmas puzzle that will take until Easter to complete.

There is no rule that says traditions must be inherited. Some of the best are invented on a whim, with sticky fingers, warm hearts, and the soft hum of holiday music drifting in from the next room.

So if the fire is warm, and the lights are still twinkling, and you feel the smallest spark of inspiration,  why not follow it? Start small. A batch of fudge. A tray of toffee. Or, if you’re feeling especially brave, ribbon candy. (If you manage it, please send tips. Or samples.)

It’s never too late to begin something new. In fact, at this stage of life, new traditions feel a little like rock candy themselves,  unexpected, sparkling, and sweet in all the right ways.

So go ahead. Stir the pot. Try the recipe. Make the candy.
And let this be the year you gift yourself not only sweetness, but the joy of creating something brand new.

Because Christmas, at its heart, isn’t about age. It’s about wonder. And wonder, my friends, is delicious

Every Christmas Journey Comes With a Story , What’s Yours This Year?

The day after Boxing Day was always our day for travelling. Boxing Day itself was devoted to visiting friends and relatives in the Lower Mainland. But the day after, that was for Vancouver Island. And that meant only one thing: braving the BC Ferry system during the holidays.

If you’ve never travelled by ferry during Christmas week, imagine trying to join a parade, a marathon, and a traffic jam all at once, then add a bit of rain, a few cranky toddlers, and at least one adult muttering, “I thought you packed the snacks.” That’s holiday ferry travel.

Back in the days before the reservation system, catching a ferry was a full-contact sport. There we’d be, bundled up in winter jackets, thermos of coffee in the cup holder, children stuffed into the backseat with new toys that could beep, honk, sing, rattle, or, in the worst moments, do all four at once. From our house, it was an hour-and-a-half drive to the terminal, assuming traffic cooperated. On holiday weekends it rarely did.

Parking at the terminal was its own adventure. Holidays meant two- to three-ferry waits, sometimes more. We’d crawl into the holding lanes, one car among hundreds, relying on blind optimism and whatever snacks survived the drive. Our children were small then, and travelling always meant at least one person needed to use the bathroom right now, someone else was hungry but only for the food we didn’t bring, and toys that worked perfectly at home mysteriously malfunctioned the moment we parked.

In the “old days,” as my children like to call them, the boats ran every hour. It felt efficient, reliable, almost blissfully predictable. But as the ferry fleet modernized and costs rose, sailings shifted to every two hours. And somehow that small change made the waits feel twice as long. Those of us travelling with children developed a keen awareness of time. Parents in the next car would exchange sympathetic nods, like soldiers recognizing fellow veterans. Someone was always pacing with a crying toddler. The air smelled faintly of exhaust and salty sea breeze, mixed with the aroma of French fries drifting from the terminal café like a siren song.

Then came the reservation system.

You’d think it would have made everything easier, and eventually it did, but at first, it simply replaced one type of chaos with another. To reserve a sailing, you had to go online five to six weeks before your trip and commit to a specific day and time. Commit! As if life with small children ran according to schedule. And you had to pay a non-refundable fee for the privilege of this certainty, which wasn’t entirely certain, because if you arrived too early or too late, your reservation wouldn’t be honoured. You had to hit the sweet spot: no more than one hour before departure and no less than 30 minutes beforehand.

Too early? Too late? Either way, good luck, Merry Christmas, and no refund.

At the terminal, you were sorted into two lines: the chosen ones (those with reservations) and the hopeful wanderers (those without). The reserved lane moved smoothly to the envy of everyone else. And yet, no matter how well you planned, the day still held its share of chaos. Babies cried, toddlers complained, adults tried not to. Someone always forgot something. The ferry workers, bundled in heavy jackets, guided cars with that calm, practiced wave that said they’d seen it all before, because they had.

But then, finally, you’d drive aboard. The engines hummed beneath your feet, the salty wind swept across the deck, and suddenly the whole journey felt worth it. The children perked up. Adults unclenched their shoulders. The cafeteria smell, fries, gravy, burgers, was oddly comforting. On the open deck, gulls followed the ship, swooping and crying against a grey winter sky. You could feel the Island drawing closer, the familiar mix of cedar, sea air, and home.

We made these holiday crossings for years. Through the changes in the ferry system, through babies becoming teens, through long waits and memorable mishaps. Then, as life does, everything shifted. Parents passed. Children grew. The need for those trips slowly faded. I miss the old days sometimes, not the lineups, not the scrambling, but the sense of purpose, the ritual of it, the way families string their traditions between one generation and the next like lights on a tree.

Now our holiday travels are quieter. Easier. But whenever we step onto a ferry, no matter the season, I feel echoes of those earlier years, the noise, the laughter, the spilled cocoa, the sense that we were heading somewhere important because family was waiting on the other side.

Every Christmas journey comes with a story.

Some are funny.
Some are stressful.
Some become part of our family lore, the kind retold every year with growing exaggeration and fondness.

So, tell me, what’s your Christmas travel story this year?

Gratitude Remains, Rest, Reflect, and Enjoy the Leftovers

Boxing Day has always held its own gentle magic. Not the glittering, sparkling, heart-thumping excitement of Christmas Day, but a quieter sort of magic, the kind that settles over you like a warm blanket after all the ribbons have been gathered, the dishes washed, and the last of the wrapping paper has been stuffed (or shoved) into the recycling bin. It is the day when gratitude remains, long after the frenzy fades. The wrapping is gone, the noise has softened, and the leftovers, oh yes, the glorious leftovers, become the heroes of the hour.

When I was growing up, Boxing Day was never about rushing or planning. It was simply a day to visit friends in town. My parents would pack us into the car, and off we’d go, bundled up in scarves and coats that always smelled faintly of wool, peppermint, and whatever dessert had been stored in the trunk. We’d arrive at my parents’ friends’ homes, the air warm with coffee, pipe smoke, and the laughter of adults who had survived another Christmas with their sanity mostly intact.

The grown-ups would settle into the living room, talking about “important things,” though to my young ears it all sounded like a pleasant hum. Meanwhile, we children would scatter to the basement or backyard, where we’d compare presents, trade stories, and try out whatever noisy toy someone had insisted on bringing along. It was a relaxed day, as I remember it, a sort of mini-holiday tucked inside the holidays. No schedule, no expectations, just companionship and the gentle feeling that Christmas wasn’t quite over yet.

When my wife and I married, we discovered, to our delight, that Boxing Day visiting was one tradition our families shared. Her family celebrated it with gusto, especially since most of her relatives lived on the mainland. She came from a clan thick with aunts, uncles, Great Aunts, Great Uncles, and grandparents who seemed to multiply every time a new family photo was taken.

Those early Boxing Days of our married life were fun, but I won’t pretend they were restful. We were young, enthusiastic, and determined to keep all the traditions alive at once. We’d start out around 11:00 AM to make the first visit in Vancouver by noon. Armed with a map of relatives (this was before GPS), we had the route down to a fine science: Aunt and Uncle #1, then the grandparents, then the cousins, then the Great Aunt who always had shortbread cooling on the table, and finally the uncle whose punch bowl should have come with a warning label.

Most years, the plan unfolded without a hitch, unless you count the time I ate too many candied yams before lunch number three and had to discreetly loosen my belt in the car. Everywhere we went, people tried to feed us. And not modest, polite offerings, either, no, these were full spreads. Turkey sandwiches, trifle, cold ham, sausage rolls, fudge, and enough cheese to repave the driveway. You couldn’t say no. It was a point of pride for the hosts, and besides, the food was too good to resist.

By the time New Year’s Day rolled around, I had usually gained enough weight to consider rolling myself into the next room instead of walking. And just when the waistband began to feel forgiving again, along came my wife’s family tradition: the massive New Year’s Day dinner. This was a glorious event, fun, loud, and overflowing with food, but let’s just say it was easier to fully appreciate it once the effects of New Year’s Eve had worn off.

Then, as time will always do, the traditions shifted. Our parents passed. My wife’s father passed. The older generation, those who once held the puzzle pieces of holiday schedules together, slowly slipped away. We had children of our own. Lives changed, priorities shifted, and the cosmic dance of Boxing Day visiting began to fade. I miss those days, the noise, the bustle, the endless plates of food, but I don’t miss them enough to try to recreate them. Some traditions are meant to live in memory, wrapped carefully like ornaments we take out now and then just to hold and smile at.

These days, Boxing Day has become something gentler. A day for comfortable clothes, mismatched socks, and second helpings of turkey stuffing. A day to flip on the TV, enjoy a movie, or simply sit in a chair long enough to notice how good it feels to do absolutely nothing. A day to let gratitude settle in, like snowflakes on a quiet street.

There is something beautifully simple about it now: the quiet house, the soft glow of lights still on the tree, the faint smell of yesterday’s feast lingering in the kitchen. Maybe a slow walk, maybe a nap, maybe a leisurely phone call with someone you didn’t get to see on Christmas Day. The world feels softer on Boxing Day. Less hurried. More forgiving.

However you celebrate these days, whether surrounded by family, visiting old friends, or enjoying a peaceful day of leftovers and reflection, I hope they are everything you want and need them to be. Because no matter how traditions evolve, gratitude remains. And sometimes the quiet moments after the celebration are the ones that remind us just how much we have to be grateful for.

Merry Christmas

 From my family to  you and yours, may your day be merry, your heart full, and your home filled with love and laughter