Soon after my husband and I bought our first house—a major fixer-upper that needed renovations in every room—we found out I was pregnant. I stood in what would become our living room with my feet covered in drywall dust, my hands caked with mudding putty, and I tried to imagine my home at Christmas time: eating freshly popped popcorn next to a crackling fire, the smell of apple pie baking in the oven, bulging stockings with a chocolate orange at the bottom.
It’s the family that makes the traditions, isn’t it? When I think of my own childhood, I see one long string of traditions and rituals: the Christmas fruitcake we “fed” for weeks with brandy so it was wonderfully moist; the gingerbread decorating contest we had on New Year’s Eve; passing around the Christmas cookies one last time, after dinner in the living room beneath the fairy lights that made our house feel like it was tucked away in the stars.
