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