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

The Newlywed Dilemma

 Every December brings its own little rituals, the scent of pine needles clinging to winter coats, the faint hum of carols floating through grocery store speakers, and the familiar tug of memories asking us to step back into stories we’ve lived a hundred times before. But it also brings a very particular holiday challenge, one that couples of all ages know all too well: whose family do we spend Christmas Day with?

It is a debate wrapped in love, sprinkled with tension, and basted in gravy. And, for many of us, it has shaped years of holiday traditions.

In the early days of our marriage, my wife and I tried very hard to be fair, or at least festive, about the whole thing. Christmas Day itself belonged to her side of the family, and the day after Boxing day was reserved for mine. It wasn’t so much a carefully negotiated agreement as it was a simple recognition of geography and personalities. I knew my brothers would gather at my parents’ house on the 25th, and I also knew that my wife’s family had perfected the art of the grand holiday feast.

And what a feast it was.

Imagine a kitchen that smelled like roasted turkey, brown sugar ham, and that distinctly comforting aroma of potatoes baking slowly under a crust of cheese and butter. Imagine a parade of relatives, some I suspected had been hiding in the basement awaiting their cue, bursting through the door with desserts, gifts, and enough stories to fuel the evening. You could hear laughter before you even opened the door, as if joy had its own volume knob turned up to eleven.

By early afternoon, the house was full. By late evening, it was very full, children chasing each other between legs, adults balancing plates on knees, and the unmistakable murmur of contentment that comes from people who have eaten far more than they should but intend to continue anyway.

Boxing Day became the day dedicated to visiting friends. We’d start at 10:00 a.m. sharp, well, “sharp” in a loose, holiday sense, and make our rounds like social Santas delivering good cheer. There was hot cocoa in one home, shortbread in another, and those slightly experimental holiday beverages someone always insists “turned out better last year.” But the joy was in the journey: the hugs, the updates, the shared laughter, and the quiet comfort of knowing these friendships shaped the landscape of our lives.

Then came the ferry rides to Vancouver Island to visit my side of the family. If you’ve ever carried a tin of cookies and two small children through a crowded holiday ferry terminal, you know it’s an Olympic sport all on its own. The reward, though, was always the same: stepping off the boat into the bracing, salty air and falling back into the familiar rhythm of my own family’s traditions, stories told loudly, the same jokes told even louder, and desserts that seemed to multiply every time someone walked into the kitchen.

For a few years after our children were born, we kept this holiday marathon going. We packed the car with toys, travel mugs, and the unwavering optimism of young parents. But eventually, reality, and exhaustion, caught up with us. One year, after buckling a very sleepy toddler into a car seat on Christmas evening, my wife and I looked at each other and realized we needed a new plan.

And so, we made one.
We decided it was time to create our own traditions in our own home.

That first Christmas felt different. Quieter. Less rushed. The house had its own warmth, our warmth. The tree lights glowed softly against the windows, the children padded around in new pajamas, and we hosted Christmas dinner for whoever wished to join us. We invited friends on Boxing Day, turning it into a relaxed open house where snacks appeared as if by magic and the coffee pot never stopped working. It was simple, but it was ours. We belonged to ourselves for the holiday, and somehow that felt like the best gift of all.

This memory bubbled up again recently when I was talking to my daughter about her holiday plans. She lives in Australia now, far from snow, ferry terminals, and the great Canadian turkey debate. She is blissfully exempt from the gentle tug-of-war that many couples still find themselves in, including my son and his partner: your family’s turkey or mine?

It’s a classic dilemma. One filled with love, loyalty, compromise, and the occasional burnt gravy. And yet, for all the fuss it creates, it’s also a sign of something wonderfully human: that we care deeply about where we belong, and with whom we share our holidays.

Whether you spend Christmas Day with your side, their side, a mix of both, or wrapped in the cozy quiet of your own home, the heart of the season remains the same. Love stretches. Traditions bend. New stories are created in the most unexpected ways.

And in the end, as I like to say, love finds a way, even through the mashed potatoes.