There is something about the holidays. A kind of aroma in the air. I breath it in, falling softly back into loving memories and feelings of comfort.
There is something about the holidays, that always brings me back to my grandmother's kitchen. Growing up both my parents worked, so my holiday breaks were spent at my grandparents house. I can recall mornings full of sleepy eyes and grumpy pouts. Having to climb into my moms suburban while it was still dark out. I remember the hushed lights filling their home as I crawled onto the couch to be met with a white throw and a few more moments of sleep. I remember waking to breakfast, followed by a snack, and lunch, and then one more. The way their green leaf wallpaper painted a backdrop for each meal eaten, game played, or talk around the table.
But what I remember most, are the days we baked. For hours and hours on end, before a rush of family arrived each holiday. How I learned the steps, just the way my grandmother would, to handfuls of recipes. Dropping each Hershey Kiss with the slightest of pressure, not too hard to break the bottom, but just enough for it to stay intact.
I still bake with my grandma each year. Her hands hold more wrinkles now, her hair a little more gray. Though the beauty of baking is the heart wrapped up inside. The memories you get to hold onto like a precious heirloom, ready to be passed down in time to come.