There is nothing better than waking up to the crispy baked smell of homemade Belgian waffles. My mom is famous for hers. Waffles for breakfast represent a celebration of some kind or a sleepover. My parents were never big fans of sleepover parties when my siblings and I were little. My mom would always say she never received a happy kid after a sleepover because of the lack of sleep. But we believed we were missing out on the best of times because we could not sleep at our friend’s houses. So her offer was to have kids sleep at our house. She would have us turn in our technology and sleep in my sister’s room that had two twin beds. But The best part about sleeping at the Lynch house was the morning’s breakfast, my mom’s Belgian waffles.

Pulling the sheets off, raising our heads, and smiling, my friends and I could not wait to beat each other to the table. While we picked a seat my mom was waiting for the final seconds to top off a nice stack of freshly made waffles. While she walked at what felt like turtle speed to the table, we eyed who would grab the top one. The top meant crispy, not yet golden, and warm enough to melt the butter you scraped on top in seconds. The best topping was the maple syrup from Maine, a luxury in my house, and the highlight of breakfast for anyone who slept over. My siblings and I had never had Aunt Jemima’s syrup but all of our friends would say “Why does your syrup taste so good?” This pleased my mom so much, watching her kids and their friends with smiling faces just get up from a great night’s sleep and enjoying breakfast!

But waffles were not only for sleepovers. It was even a better experience having them for a birthday, holiday, or special occasion. On these dates, we spent time together cooking them in the kitchen with mom. She had the recipe memorized by now but would have one of us take down this old, flour caked, tattered cookbook and open to about halfway through the book. The recipe and instructions were smeared from over the years but we loved trying to decipher what it said, even though mom knew exactly what she was doing. Then we would get the eggs, flour, baking soda, baking powder, milk, salt, and sugar! My mom split my siblings and me up for the jobs: a pair of us would be in charge of the dry ingredients, measuring and pouring them into a big mixing bowl; the other two would be in charge of wet. This job was more challenging but we all wanted to do it. We all competed to be appointed in charge of the eggs and milk. The wet people had to crack the eggs delicately in order to separate the yolk from the white. My mom would then pull out of the bottom drawer a black, crusty, waffle iron she was gifted from her wedding registry and we would get cooking! The iron was pretty old so crumbs or extra residue would burn quickly releasing a smoky smell into the air. Then we would all anticipate when the light on the top of the iron would turn from red to green, signaling the waffles were ready. We would stack the light, fluffy, slightly unfinished product on a big plate, take the heated syrup out of the microwave, put a stick of butter on a small plate, and then walk down to the kitchen table to enjoy the best breakfast ever.

The Lynch’s are known for their extravagant Sunday Roasts, standing reservation at Fidel’s, a local Mexican restaurant, and a freezer stacked with only the best Strauss Mint Chip ice cream. We love cooking at home and have a stubborn mother who does not tolerate poor eating habits. We have always been taught that we are active beings and need the right nutrients to care for our bodies. My mom is a very good cook and demonstrates her love for her family through cooking. Cooking is an expression of love and therapy in my family. I think my family and I can agree that her greatest expression of herself is through her food Waking up to the sweet smell of waffles cooking is almost like waking up to a rich dessert, but because it is homemade my mom says it is “good” for us. This is our cheat breakfast for lazy mornings, sleepovers, and birthdays. Sadly, the wedding present that cooked the best waffles had to be replaced but we still enjoy a homemade, slightly golden, coated with maple syrup waffle on occasion! For as long as I can remember homemade waffles have been a part of my family. My mom has memorized the recipe which hopefully my siblings and I can eventually as well and she has created a celebratory vibe around having this breakfast. It is an expression of celebration for us. We commemorate my parent’s life they have built by using a wedding present of theirs, the waffle iron. Belgian waffles are an inviting staple of my household and will always be.

A creamy, sweet fruity punch hits my mouth as the spoon enters. Peaches and cream is one of my family’s special summer treats. Every week, we get 20 lbs of peaches at the local farmers market. Surprisingly, these peaches are actually grown in South Carolina and driven down by the family that grows them. Georgia is known for their peaches but in the summer, Carolina peaches are better. We take them out of the wooden box and lay some dish towels down on our counter. The best way to ripen peaches perfectly is to put the stem down and line them up like school children’s desks. I always like how satisfying the long rows of peaches look against the white cloth. A few days later, the peaches are tender when touched. You know they’re ready when they are a little soft but still spring back when pushed.

Every day we check with anticipation to see if they are ready. When we can smell the sweet peachy scent and can feel the tender fruit under the tough skin, we know. Before dinner, we mix heavy cream, whole milk, white sugar, vanilla extract, and vanilla seed until the mixture is a little frothy, and after many tastes to make sure we’ve found the perfect balance, we put it in the refrigerator. We think that this gives the mixture time to for the flavors to marry, but who knows.

While we wait for the creamy goodness to reach its final form, we cook dinner. Usually I am inside making a simple salad with the fresh, flavor-bursting tomatoes from the farmers market while my mom is on the screened porch grilling fish. The whiting, a flaky local white fish, is cooked on top of lemons so the hot flames don't burn it. The smoke fills the porch and my brother, Charlie, sets the table. Once my salad is finished, I go to the porch to keep my mom company and enjoy the ocean wind pushing its salty smell to our house. Our sunkissed faces get a little moist due to the extremely humid weather, even at 8:00pm with the sun just barely set. After dinner, we bring all the dishes in and clean up. Before dessert we go on our nightly beach walk. The sun has officially set but it feels like a sauna still as our feet crunch along the sand and get lapped by the water. We walk down from our house on 28th street to 14th street and then turn around so we can get home before it is dark. When we arrive home, we all desperately get a glass of water and wait for my mom and I to cut the peaches.

Before I can cut the peaches I take the cream out to get it closer to room-temp. When it is too cold it doesn’t taste as strong. My secret to cutting the peaches is to peel half of the skin off. The texture of the skin is delicious but the sweet and tender fruit is sometimes muted by the rough, fuzzy skin. I peel 5 of the 10 peaches and start chopping the 4 sides off. Once I have the 4 large segments I cut them lengthwise and then again the opposite way, creating cube-like shapes. My hands, and sometimes my shirt, get coated in a sugary nectar. I usually wash my hands a few times and then grab 6 bowls from the cabinet. I portion the peaches as evenly as possible then grab another whisk from the drawer. A few minutes of frothingand the friction helps get the cream to room temp. My mom hands me a ladle and I scoop the delectable mixture over the bowls, making sure each bowl equal. I sprinkle a little more white sugar on top for crunch before serving. My family is not far when I call “Peaches!!” Everyone rushes in. My younger brother gets on his tippy toes to try to make sure he grabs the biggest bowl. We all sit at the table on the porch, warm and happy, while the creamy, fruity summer treat brings the summer sun to us.

Thanksgiving is a tough holiday for my family for a very good reason. The memory of my sister’s death haunts that day, and we have trouble pretending that we’re not all thinking about it. It’s uncomfortable. Still, no one wants to bring it up, no one wants to make anyone sad. We share the fun memories of her life and the joy she used to bring us, but we don’t talk about how she's gone now, as no one wants to start the flood of tears it could trigger. My mom’s food makes us feel better. It’s simultaneously our favorite and least favorite holiday. The one time we didn’t have Thanksgiving at home, something went horribly wrong.

For the past seven years, we’ve done the same thing. My dad does all the shopping while my mom continuously texts him more items that she forgot to write on the list. Clueless, I keep asking my mom what I can do to help. I’ll help set the table, maybe vacuum, put the dogs toys away, and just try to tidy the house a bit. My useless brother is nowhere to be found. My mom seasons the turkey, gets the stuffing ready, chops the ends off the green beans, and makes the cranberry sauce. It’s quite amazing how she knows exactly what to do, and keeps track of everything that needs to be done. The timing of it all confuses me. I do what I can to help and so does my dad; mashing the sweet potatoes, doing taste tests to make sure nothing is poisonous, etc.

As my mom cooks, the heavenly smell wafts through the house and reaches my room. I think Thanksgiving dinner is the most delicious out of any holiday, and my whole family would agree. We sit down and get ready to feast. It might be awkward at first, my whole family ignoring the obvious, but as soon as we dig into my mom’s delicious food, the sadness dissipates. Though we lost someone, we still have each other. As we sit at the table, passing the dishes around, we thank my mom for cooking the most amazing meal. The fresh, tangy cranberry sauce compliments the tender turkey, as well as both the soft and crispy bits of the stuffing. Put it all together and you make the perfect bite.

After completely stuffing ourselves, we’ll usually chitchat or joke around. For a moment, everything feels ok. This holiday holds the ability to sadden my family, but the delicious, home-cooked meal uplifts us, and sends us into a cascade of happy emotion as we eat and chat. It is truly one of the best examples of the different good food can make.

Ever since we moved to California we have embarked on new family traditions. My family moved to California because of my dad’s job when I was in second grade. Every year on Christmas Eve we go to P.F. Chang’s at Stanford mall for a family dinner. This tradition started when we were all arguing over which restaurant we should go to. My mom and sister had wanted to go to Bucca, an Italian restaurant and my dad and I had wanted to go to Pf Changs, a Chinese restaurant. The decision was left with my younger sister who had been craving pork fried dumplings for weeks.

We love the environment of the restaurant. The lights are dim, it is quiet, and there are unique decorations such as Buddha statues and lantern-shaped lights. In addition, folding screens separate the tables like those used in Japan, where I used to live. It reminds me of home. The waiters and waitresses are always very easy to spot in theirblack uniforms, and they are always very helpful and kind. Whenever we go to Pf Changs my parents wind up talking to a waiter for about fifteen minutes before my sisters and I are even able to order. They are quite friendly and definitely talkative which is one factor for why we love the restaurant so much.

We all order the exact same dishes since we started eating there over ten years ago. We all like to share the crispy green beans, a large order of white rice, and an order of eight pork fried dumplings. The crispy green beans are crunchy and sweet with a thin layer of fried bread crumbs. The snow colored rice has exotic steam coming off it for minutes after it is given to our table. Once it is cool enough, it leaves a nice warm, soft taste in your mouth. The pork-fried dumplings are also quite delightful. The outside, shell-like layer is cool, smooth, and bland, butthe hot, textured piece of pork inside adds a lot of flavor. Next, it is usually time for my dad and mom to order. They usually order the exact same thing, sesame chicken and miso glazed salmon. I refuse to eat salmon so I could not tell you what it tastes like but it looks quite delicious, with the piece of salmon cooked medium with mushroom, spinach, garlic, and miso glaze on top. It smells more like pasta than salmon, in all honesty. My younger sister Aspen orders the kids honey chicken with ketchup. She is a very picky eater. I used to eat the honey chicken when I was younger, and the chicken was well cooked with the fried honey layer adding the perfect amount of sweetness. For the last three years, I have gotten a small order of vegetable fried rice and a California roll. The vegetable fried rice is my favorite of all time because of the mix of brown rice, thin pieces of spinach, miniature circles of egg, and cut up rectangular daikon radishes. All the different types of ingredients make the dish. I also enjoy their California rolls with white rice, rolled with seaweed, the crab tucked in the middle. It is chewy and the roll actually stays together while I try to eat it which is quite helpful.

Because of the Coronavirus, my family was unable to fulfill our tradition of going to Pf Changs for Christmas Eve dinner. Not being able to go has truly made me understand how much I appreciate going and that it was not just going to a restaurant, it was the one place I knew my whole family would be at for one night. Even though we have gotten takeout from the restaurant, the experience is not the same. My older sister is away at graduate school, there are no waiters or waitresses to interact with, and the environment has transformed from a calm, spiritual place to the comfort of my kitchen table. As soon as my family feels safe enough to go to restaurants, PF Changs will most definitely be the first place we hit.

Nine placemats, nine forks, nine water glasses, seven children, two parents. This is how the Tinsley family gathers every night. While this might sound like some quaint Italian restaurant, it's actually my kitchen table. This is where I have sat every night for most of my life with my family of nine.

It’s a dark, cold night. The sun set early because of winter daylight savings. We sit around the long wooden table and wait for everyone to be seated. We have just come back from Christmas Eve mass and are starving, waiting for the traditional roast beef dinner. Although we want to change from our church clothes into pjs, my mom makes us “look nice” for dinner, even when it’s just our family. Sometimes the boys will keep their dress shirts on but sneak into sweatpants that are hidden under the dinner table.

The smell of the hot roast beef, fresh out of the oven, fills the kitchen and makes me even more hungry. My job is to help prepare the salad and get the biscuits out of the oven while my dad cuts the beef with the biggest knife I’ve ever seen. I take the biscuits out of the oven early because I prefer them softer rather than crunchy, just like my siblings.

We line up and serve ourselves buffet style, with the girls always first in line. This seems like a nice gesture, but is actually torture because then we have to wait the longest with our food in front of us. Waiting for everyone to be seated is hard, but worth it once we start eating. We say grace and then dig in.

Mashed potatoes, roast beef, beans, biscuits, and Caesar salad. That’s what’s staring at me from my plate. I immediately go for what I like to call the ‘Megan Combo’: roast beef-biscuit sandwich. I carefully place pieces of beef between the warm, soft biscuit halves and inspire others to make it as well.

This dish is an annual Tinsley Christmas Eve tradition that started before I can even remember. We used to have my grandparents from both my mom’s and dad’s side over to our house for this dinner. After my mom’s parents passed away, it was weird to just have my dad’s mom and dad. And this last Christmas was the first time we didn’t have any grandparents at the table with us. Although huge for many families, nine is a weirdly small number of people to have at our Christmas Eve table. Even now that our grandparents are gone, we continue the roast beef dinner and will for a long time.

I took Food Writing this term and I have learned a lot. However, one of my favorite takeaways can be affiliated with meals like this. Although we have a roast beef dinner every year, it’s not actually about the dish itself. Food Writing taught me that food isn’t just a recipe on a plate. It’s supposed to tell a story and connect with the people who eat it. As the consumer, I know that the prepared food is wonderful, but the tradition and ritual of sitting at the dinner table with my family is even better.

Even though it is hard to take my mind away from the food I enjoy, I can find myself looking around my table of nine and realizing how lucky I am.

It was mid-July, a warm summer day, around eleven in the morning. I felt a strong desire to cook a large meal for my family and my grandma. I decided to make a variety of my favorite dishes--from heirloom tomatoes to shrimp skewers. I headed over to Mollie Stone and as soon as I entered the store, I was immediately in the fruit section, full of brown boxes holding fruits of all colors. I immediately looked for the ripe, blood red heirloom tomatoes that always were plentiful. As I felt the tomatoes, they varied in firmness but had a strong ,fresh aroma. I found my remaining ingredients: sea salt, baby arugula, and olive oil.

I planned on making: garlic bread, shrimp skewers, baby arugula salad with chicken, pasta with butter, and a platter of assorted cheeses. I began by thoroughly washing the ripe tomatoes and the vibrant green basil. I cut the burrata cheese into thin slices to match the large slices of the heirloom tomatoes. I plated these on a large plate with the burrata slices sinking into the tender tomato, sprinkled the cut basil and drizzled everything with the pure olive oil and the dark balsamic vinaigrette. The vibrant flavor of the tomatoes continue to brighten alongside the large assortment of colors on the plate. The burrata dripped with oil and the basil fell off the sides onto the plate. Next, I pulled the shrimp skewers out of the refrigerator and unwrapped the tightly wrapped plastic. The shrimp were oozing with the tangy teriyaki dressing and I quickly threw them onto the hot pan to cook. Shrimp has always been one of the hardest dishes to make because you don't want it to be chewy but you also don't want the raw texture looming in your mouth. I continued to taste test one of the shrimp til they were perfectly cooked and the shrimp flavor jumped into your mouth with the aftertaste of the teriyaki. I spooned the shrimp into an antique looking bowl and continued with my arugula salad.

I had washed and spun the arugula earlier to dry it, and only had to throw a hefty amount of arugula into a large green bowl and began ripping chicken from the large rotisserie chicken. I began putting the strips into the arugula chicken and then threw in the small pine nuts to help balance out the strong flavor of the olive oil and lemon. I drizzled the olive oil onto the salad and then squeezed a whole lemon over top to add tang and freshness. I sprinkled sea salt onto the top and began to mix thoroughly with my hands to combine the strong flavors in order to get the perfect balance of flavors accompanied by the slowly cooked chicken.

This experience as a whole made me more appreciative of the power in cooking a meal with others while also enjoying the art of cooking.

One food that I am very grateful for is Wiener Schnitzel. This dish is traditionally Austrian and my grandfather, being from Austria, brought the tradition of eating Schnitzel to the family. Although my family and I don’t have a specific day or tradition for eating Schnitzel, we typically eat it at family reunions when we can all be together as one big family.

My cousins and I are all involved in the cooking process in some way. We each have our own stations: my younger brother is first and he coats the veal with flour. Second, my youngest cousin coats the floury veal with eggs so the breadcrumbs will stick. The third station is my station. I am responsible for covering the veal in the light layer of breadcrumbs. Although it sounds easy, it is actually more important and difficult than it sounds. I need the layer of breadcrumbs to be thin, yet completely covering the veal, because if there is a place with no breadcrumbs, the exterior cover will rip. Fourth, my sister and my older cousin are responsible for the frying of the Schnitzel. Although all the other steps are important, this is definitely the most important step because a poor frying will leave the Schnitzel soggy and stiff instead of crispy and tender as it should be. Finally, my uncle, who organizes this assembly line, acts as our sous chef, making sure everything is perfect. He’s Canadian, so it’s interesting that he is the one critiquing our creation of this Austrian food, but he holds us to a high standard and always get us to make some high quality Schnitzel.

I love this process because I know I am contributing and able to be with my cousins and siblings, focused on achieving a goal in a fun environment. Of course, there is definitely some banter and making fun of people for being too slow at their station, so there is some peer pressure to execute as perfectly as possible without holding up the line. By now, my cousins and siblings and I have this process down to a science. We are very efficient and we just know what we are doing because we are so good at our respective stations that we are almost machines doing it.

Then we sit down at dinner with our plates heaping with Schnitzel, lingonberry sauce, and lemons. I love knowing that I played an integral role in the creation of this meal and I just enjoy it that much more than I normally would. With this incredible food surrounded by my family, we always have a great time laughing, arguing, and just enjoying ourselves.

This meal is so important to me because it represents more than just eating delicious food, it means a connection with family. As we all sit around the table, I think about how lucky I am to be with my family enjoying a meal that my great grandparents and great great grandparents enjoyed means a lot to me and makes me feel even that much closer to my family.

The tin was round and tall. No bigger than a soccer ball, the tin sat like a teddy bear gently in her warm hands. Santa Claus rode the tin’s sides like a ferris wheel, whirling around them. Red and green glared back at me, and I knew. Those were the lemon cookies. The lemon cookies that I loved so much. The lemon cookies that accompanied every visit that she made to me.

I gleefully looked at my Nana and rushed towards her like a freight train. She handed me my cookies, the biggest smile on her face. I instinctively wrapped my arms around her as tight as a mother hugs her child before they are about to go off to college.

“Thank you! Thank you! Are these the cookies?!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” she stammered back at me.

Letting out a squeal of delight, I plunged back into her arms and dissolved like ice in the sun.

“Oh, ok thank you. I love you,” she exclaimed back to me.

“I love you.” I echoed back and uncovered the Santa Claus tins. Little rays of sunshine sat there waiting for me. Lemon cookies covered with powdered sugar. The circular cookies stared back at me, practically begging me to eat them. Picking up a cookie, white sugar covered my fingers. As my tooth plunged into the cookie like a knife through cold butter, white sugar coated my lips. Lemon and powered sugar battled for dominance inside my mouth. Lemon strikes the first blow, coming in strong like a warhead. But soon after powdered sugar hits my tongue with a striking blow, enveloping my mouth in sweetness and coating my tongue in sugar in order to set up a defense against the next lemon attack. The battle finally over, the lemon tangs in my mouth and left me wanting the sweet sugar once again. By this point, the powdered sugar icovered my lips. I licked the powdered sugar off my lips and savored the perfect balance of sweet and sour. The tang of the lemon still ringing in my mouth, the sweetness of the powdered sugar playing its chords.

They are the perfect cookies. The mixture of the lemon and powdered sugar battling makes it perfect, and leaves you wanting to eat the whole batch. But nevertheless, I only have some. These cookies only ever come when my Nana comes to visit me. I never get to experience the tang of the lemon or the sweetness of the powdered sugar when she is at home in Arizona. I can only seem to imagine the flavors that would run rampant if I was able to fold myself into her arms once again. While I can make the cookies without her, they are never quite the same. The tang of the lemon is never quite as strong. The sweetness of the powdered sugar always seems overpowering. While I can sit on the phone with her, it is never quite the same as being able to snuggle on the coach with her. It is never quite the same as making a gingerbread village with her. It is never quite the same as her yelling at me to stop eating the cookie dough. The flavors are never quite the same as being with her. So I long for the cookies. I long to be able to taste them again.

I grew up making coffee cake with my grandma. She lived in Northern California and visiting her happened once or twice a month. Everytime my family and I would go down to her house it was a requirement to make coffee cake. Ever since I was 6 my grandma and I have woken up early at 6am to make coffee cake. My grandma would lightly wake me up in the morning. A tapping of the shoulder would signify the start of a tradition for just the two of us.

Her recipe was different from a classic Martha Stewart recipe. It required 3 times the amount of brown sugar and butter you would expect. When I was small I would silently watch her perfectly crack eggs into a bowl. I would let the humming of the mixer take over my thoughts. She taught me how to delicately dribble the mixture of brown sugar and butter mixture onto the cake batter. At the end she would let me lick the spoon that we used to mix the milky butter and sweet brown sugar. As I got older I would slowly graduate from spoon licker to egg cracker, to mixer, and to oven duty. While we waited for the coffee cake to cook in the oven she would tell me stories about my mom, my grandpa and my uncle. I would tell her about my life, who was in my classes, what I was up to back at home. She would tease me about boys and sometimes would braid my hair.

As the coffee cake baked in the oven the kitchen would become consumed by sweet air. By around 7 am the rest of the family would wake up. My grandma would cut and serve a piece of coffee cake to each person in my family. I would pour the glasses of milk or coffee. Each bite of butter sweet coffee cake filled my stomach and satisfied me. Grandpa would let out a few gleeful grunts while he reached for seconds. In the corner of the kitchen my Grandma has a file full of 100 different recipes. To conclude our morning breakfast she would quietly walk back and slip in the index card with the coffee cake recipe. The tin grey box latched shut with a snap and our meal was over.

For the first time since I was 6, I made coffee cake alone. Early this year my grandma was sick and so I decided to make everyone coffee cake. I got all the ingredients, cracked the eggs, poured the batter, dribbled the butter and sugar, and placed it into the oven. As the thick scent of sugar coaxed the air I sat in the lazy boy chair next my grandma. We talked and chatted like we always do. Later I distributed the coffee cake and was sure it didn’t taste quite right. My grandma kept insisting that it was perfect. What I was missing was not an ingredient. It was that I did not make it with my grandma. At the end of the meal I slipped the index card with the recipe in the tin grey box for the first time.

Ever since I was really little, Christmas time in my family has been solely based on traditions. We have created such concrete traditions that if there is even a slight change in plans, it feels very uncomfortable. One of my favorite ones happens a few days before Christmas and we have a family fondue night.

My mom goes to the store a few weeks prior to make sure the packet fondue at Trader Joe’s isn’t sold out. She also gets pound cake, Rice Krispy treats, cream puffs, strawberries, and apricots. The day before, she goes and gets a big, fresh baked loaf of bread. When the day finally comes, my mom starts off cutting up the loaf of bread into small cubes. She then puts me on cheese fondue duty. I get the fondue pot and forks out. We attach an extension cord to the pot and place the pot on the dining room table and plug it into the closest outlet. We then place the cold fondue packets into the pot and turn it on. As it heats up, I have to stir to make sure the cheese all mixes together and doesn’t burn at the bottom. My mom, dad, brothers and I all sit down at the table to eat. My mom previously made my brothers and dad steak, and she made me and herself shrimp because we don’t eat red meat. We pass around the bowl of bread and take a handful for the first round. We then quickly dip the bread on the fork into the cheese. The cheese is so gooey that we need to twirl it around the bread so we don’t pull a long string of cheese out of the pot and onto the table. The cheese is absolutely to die for, and the cheese is so rich. It is a blend of Swiss and Gruyere and it tastes like comfort.

After we finish and all get up from the table, we do the dishes and then go into the living room. We have a tradition of doing “family Christmas” before actual Christmas. My brothers, parents and I all buy each other one or two presents and open them together. After we open our presents, we have a quick break to go back to our rooms and clean up.

After presents and clean up, we go into the family room and watch the Polar Express. On this special night, it always is Polar Express and can’t be any other movie. While my brothers, dad and I were cleaning up, my mom makes the chocolate fondue and sets up our plates. She puts one Rice Krispie treat, a few small slices of pound cake, a couple strawberries and apricots, and a few cream puffs on each plate. We sit in our specific spots on the couch and pass around the chocolate fondue and dip in our treats.

This night is my favorite because we only have the fondue on this one day a year and it is totally worth waiting a whole year for it. It is even more special to just be with my family. We spend the whole holiday together, but it isn’t until this night where it feels like we are all together. We have fresh fondue at some restaurants throughout the year, but nothing will ever compare to how it feels to sit around the dining room table and just enjoy the presence of my family with our special fondue tradition.

It was Christmas Eve and, like every year, The Brake family and the Shaw family came together for a shared meal. The tradition to meet on Christmas Eve has been happening for over five years. My family gets dressed to the nines and makes our way across the bridge, arriving at my “Aunt” Nikki’s place around 4:30.

We are always greeted by familiar smiles, sounds, and smells. The house smells like Christmas, a sweet and similar smell to pine. It is a treat when Gretchen and Andrew, Nikki’s grown children, come home to spend the holidays with us. Christmas carols play softly in the background, and delicious smells of basting ham radiate from the kitchen. Following my nose, I find a ham slowly cooking in the oven. Mashed potatoes and yams sit untouched atop the stove, while the cranberry sauce stays cold in the fridge. Because most of the cooking is done when I arrive, It has been my designated job for several years to set the table with traditional Christmas plates, silverware, candles, and napkins.

We all have a spot at the table that we've claimed as our own. Nikki sits at the head of the table, Gretchen and Andrew on either side of her. My family sits at the other end of the table. My seat is one over, to the right, of the opposite head of the table, where my mom typically sits. We bring the feast from the kitchen to the table. The dining room is filled with the delicate aroma of honey ham. The festive table is filled full of different dishes. Delectable vegetarian quiche for my sister, mashed potatoes, dinner rolls, and an assortment of different roasted vegetables. The honey ham sits in the middle of the table. My dad’s designated job is to carve the meat and serve each of us.

The cranberry sauce has always been my favorite. Burgundy in color and lumpy in texture, this sauce makes the meal. It’s sickly sweet berries run all over my plate, covering my mashed potatoes and ham. My sister scolds me for drenching my plate in cranberry sauce, yet every year I do the same thing, despite my sister's lessons on etiquette.

This annual feast is a big part of the holidays for my family. We get to see people that we haven't seen all year and get to fill our bellies until we can't move. The meal is the same every year, yet there is something so special about it. Whether you want to call it Christmas magic or the love between two families, this dinner is defined forever as a traditional meal that brings us all together.

For the holidays, we usually have three traditions. One of them is to celebrate Christmas on the 24th and the other ones are to eat tamales for Christmas and panes con pollo for New Years, which is a tradition from El Salvador. However, every year, I always make sure that we eat those specific foods for each holiday. The tradition sometimes may get broken which personally, I do not like, as it just feels weird. The foods we eat for each specific holiday just give it an extra boost to the holiday spirit. Food is a way for not just us but for any family to come together to remind us of our roots and where we come from. It is a reminder of the sacrifices made and to stay proud of our origins. For New Year's, I like to eat something, a special sandwich called panes con pollo.

You may have probably heard of tamales but I doubt you know panes con pollo, also known as panes rellenos; Panes con pollo are known as tortas in Mexico. The English translation itself gives you a basic understanding of what this food is: bread with chicken. You can think of panes con pollo as a Subway sandwich, but more special and with a larger chance of feeling full after eating one. Panes con pollo consists of French bread, and inside, lots of different ingredients like the chicken, sliced tomatoes, sliced radishes, sliced cucumbers, watercress, shredded cabbage, oregano, powdered chicken broth, topped off with the juice from the chicken that you cooked, giving give it that extra taste. Eat this with a soda and/or coffee and you will get that real Salvadoran experience.

Although it may sound like a Subway sandwich, this is one of those meals that you don’t eat very often; even though it seems like a simple meal, it's mostly just eaten for the holiday. A few people may sell it but this dish is most reserved for the holidays, which is why it's very important for me to convince the rest of my family members to eat this for the New Year. I really like to stick to tradition, as it's a way for me to feel more Salvadoran and feel more connected to my roots and my family back home. Since food is an important aspect of any culture, being able to learn about the food from my culture is important for me. As I have not been able to travel to the motherland, I try my best to do what I can here in the states to feel Salvadoran, even if I was born here and live thousands of miles away. I always make sure that food is one of those things that I try to learn about the most.

I am quite fond of the memory of the first Thanksgiving that I can remember. It took place on a piece of land my parents own in Texas near a lot of relatives. It has a small, old building we have somewhat ironically named the white house, and a large silver barn with a random collection of unassorted tools and trinkets. This included old tools, a rusty weed wacker or two, and the quite noticeable sky blue kayak. While these were definitely not ideal conditions for making a beautiful banquet, my family decided to anyway. The kitchen is small for our standards with only a gas oven, three electric stove tops, a microwave, two fridges (for some reason, one of these is from before my grandmother was born). The barn has thin sheet metal walls, and almost no lighting. There was no table on property that could possibly fit the twenty some people attending.

While my memory is quite foggy, the one of the main things I remember is the long table that we made by putting multiple folding tables end to end, and covering them with a typical plastic red and white checkered tablecloth that one would find at a low end pizza restaurant. My little legs dangled from my folding chair above the straw floor beneath me. Even with our suboptimal cooking accommodations, the meal was large enough to fill the entire table and feed the overwhelming number of people that attended. Since it was Thanksgiving, the meal was quite traditional with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, gravy, cranberries, and brean rolls. The bread rolls were made by my grandmother, a recipe of hers that I have had countless times. They are soft, warm, and surprisingly sweet. When covered in butter, their taste will be ingrained in your memory like they have on mine so many times. The experience was so memorable to everyone there, but we decided to never again host Thanksgiving in a barn from a kitchen that small.

This moment is particularly important to me because it is my first major food memory. Additionally, it is one of my first memories about my extended family. Despite this event happening when I was quite young, the somewhat silly nature of the whole situation makes it hold a firm place in my memory. The rustic barn venue let everyone enjoy the meal from the small kitchen much more than they anticipated.

Flying halfway across the world to go visit my family in Ireland I thought about all the food I would eat once I got to my grandma’s house. She always bakes all of the delicious desserts my sister and I love. She would bake and freeze tarts, meringues, cakes, and puddings in anticipation of our arrival. Besides baking she also cooks anything and everything that we want from carrot and mushroom soup to chicken pot pie. On the first night we are at my grandma's house we always have the same dinner; cream of mushroom soup to start, then ham, cabbage, and potatoes, finishing off with eves pudding.

Walking through the hallway and through the kitchen all the way to the back of the house where the dining room is, I sit down on the wooden chairs exhausted; putting my arms and head down on the mahogany circular table. I wait until she brings out her famous cream of mushroom soup which my sister and I look forward to all year. The soup is placed down in front of us, a light cream color with darker speckles of the shitake mushrooms, piping hot with steam rising from the bowl. We grab our soup spoons and begin eating the creamy soup, which reminds me of every previous summer I have been in Ireland.

After we help clear the bowls, my grandma brings out ham with steamed cabbage and potatoes. The ham in Ireland tastes so different from any ham here. It is saltier, is more thickly cut and isn’t as tough as the ham here. The saltiness of the ham pairs perfectly with the slightly salty but blander cabbage. It is always a fight over who gets the smallest boiled potato when we are at my grandma’s house, because we both bitterly dislike the taste. My sister and I remove the metal top from the glass container that is keeping the potatoes hot to see which one is the smallest. We try to be discreet because we always get in trouble for not liking potatoes. My sister has a keen eye for the smallest potato and usually ends up grabbing the best one. I grab a medium to small sized potato and put it on my bread plate. I remove the skin and slather it in butter to make it more appealing to me. Sometimes I even make my own little mashed potato. My mom never gave us potatoes growing up and when boiled, the potatoes have no taste initially, but then leave a strange aftertaste in my mouth. A plain boiled potato for me and my sister is unappetizing, and to the rest of our Irish family makes us “so American.”

Once everyone has had their fill of the main course for the night, we move on to dessert; an Eve’s pudding. I have never seen one in any bakeries in America, and it is a special dessert that reminds me of both Ireland and my grandma. The dessert consists of stewed apples topped with a madeira cake. The only thing I would change about my grandma’s Eve’s pudding is the amount of cinnamon in it; my grandma puts no cinnamon (most Irish people don’t enjoy putting copious amounts of cinnamon in food for some reason). After polishing off one bowl of the Eve’s pudding plain, I place a second serving in my bowl but this time I put heavy whipping cream over it. I enjoy the flavors--plain and with cream.

Three course meals are not an indulgence I get often, so I am extremely grateful every time I go visit my grandma. After every dinner when I am in Ireland I have to lug myself up the stairs because I am so full. I am grateful for the amazing and special cooking my grandmother does for me. In Ireland, the food tastes different and her cooking enhances these differences. The sausages and bacon are prepared and served in different ways, the milk has a different aftertaste, and you even have a personal relationship with both the farmer and the butcher where your meat is sourced. My grandma also cooks with far more cream and butter than my mother who only uses olive oil in her cooking. The difference in the culture I was raised with is always present while eating the food in Ireland.

The time of year I feel most connected to my family is Christmas, and I imagine it's that way for many other people as well. It’s a time for giving, and spending time with the people who care about you. For my family, we like to do a lot of things around Christmas time: go pick out a tree together, host our friends on Christmas Eve, and maybe even see “The Nutcracker” in the City. However, my favorite part of every year is the breakfast that we have on Christmas morning. We wake up, preferably later (although my little brother likes to get going), exchange gifts, and then make our food. We change it every year, but it usually cycles between pancakes, waffles, French toast, omelets, cinnamon rolls, crepes, and more.

I love to help with the cooking, and probably the thing that I like most are the eggs or omelettes. Mixing bacon, ham, cheese, kale, tomatoes, everyone in my family likes their own style. You also can't go wrong with the egg bacon and cheese sandwich. I look forward to the sizzling of the pan, and the heat of the stove in the morning, and trying not to spill anything on the matching pajamas that my mom has me and my siblings wear. From whisking batter, attempting to make fancy shapes, to flipping flapjacks on the griddle, I can safely say that this is my favorite meal of the year. For my family, it’s when we are most enjoying each other's company, and sometimes we are joined by our cousins. They enjoy a good breakfast just as much as we do. More people, more food, there is no downside.

I can never seem to stop smiling around this time. It's a feeling that I hope to keep creating throughout my life, when I have my own family to make smile. As I have reflected more with food, I realize that it makes a great compliment for great memories. It always seems to tie everything together, and be a catalyst for some of the best times of my life.