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
