The Fall of a Christmas Tradition

Every year for as long as I can remember I have helped my mom make Christmas
dinner: a steaming ham surrounded by dishes of green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, stuffing,
and pies. It was one of my favorite parts of the holidays. I can remember my first time helping
her. I could barely peer over the counter, but I was still determined to help measure ingredients
and carry mixing bowls and plates to their predetermined locations. My mom and I spent hours
making sure everything was perfect for Christmas, and this year would be no different.
Snow fell in thick, white sheets. It blanketed everything in a layer of cold and the
cars in the driveway had been reduced to shapeless mounds. I stood in the kitchen helping my
mom prepare the ingredients to make Christmas dinner. Helping her with the cooking was
always one of my favorite parts of Christmas day, and it was a privilege given only to the oldest
child. My dad was an amazing cook, but his talents were mainly exercised behind the grill. This
was our domain. Our dark hair was pulled back in messy buns and the counters were strewn with
various ingredients and utensils. My siblings were in the living room watching whatever cheesy
Christmas movie was playing that night, and I could hear the faint music drifting through the
house. I washed my hands and turned the front burner of the stove on. Or at least I tried to, but
no flame ignited. There were a few faint clicks and then silence. I tried a few more times before
deferring to my mom for help. But the burner wouldn’t start, no matter how many times we tried.
When neither of us could start the stove top, we called my dad in for reinforcement. He lumbered
into the kitchen and, after a few minutes of wrestling and button pressing, concluded that the
oven had somehow become disconnected from the gas.
“What’re we supposed to do now?” my mom asked exasperatedly. “It’s
Christmas, there’s nothing open, and we have to find a way to get it running tonight.”
With no way to cook the meal we had planned, I started searching for nearby
stores or restaurants that might be open nearby. It was pointless. Everyone was home with their
own families to cook their own meals and watch their own Christmas movies. Road conditions
were getting worse with every passing minute and everywhere within a 10-mile radius was
closed. Everywhere, that is, except the small Chinese restaurant, which sat snugly between the
dollar store and the hair salon, about a mile from our house. I brought this up to my parents.
“It may not be ham and stuffing, but it’s something,” I suggested. My mom was
not convinced. For as long as I can remember we always made dinner together on Christmas, and
my mother had always been a strict follower of tradition. But we didn’t have many other options.
My mom and I brushed the mountain of snow off the deep red minivan, the color
standing out harshly against the pale white snow. We reluctantly got in and made our way into
town. The streets were bare of any other vehicles and the dark storefronts, producing an ominous
appearance to our usually lively town. Snow fell so thickly that the lines on the road were
practically invisible. We slowly pulled into the lot outside of the restaurant and attempted to
identify a parking spot.
“This is ridiculous,” my mom chuckled. “I’m just gonna pretend we’re in a spot,
it’s not like there’s anyone else here to complain.”
We made our way up to the small, dimly lit restaurant. I drew my coat as tightly
as I could against the cold wind, the snowflakes clinging to my eyelashes and making navigation
almost impossible. As I pulled the door open a faint bell jingled, announcing our arrival. We
quickly squeezed into the small dining area and were greeted with a warm rush of air. As the
door closed behind us, a short, energetic young woman rushed up to the register. Her black hair
was pulled back in a sleek ponytail and she wore a pale green apron across her torso. She yelled
back into the kitchen in a tongue I didn’t recognize. Then she turned back to us with a radiant
smile and offered to take our order.
After placing our order, my mom and I sat in the window and watched the snow
fall. Already it had begun to reclaim the van, with a large dusting already blanketing the roof in
white.
As we sat the smells surrounding me began to sink in. The overwhelming smell of
soy and vinegar, along with the faint hint of shrimp and chicken simmering. They were so
different from the smell of baked ham, stuffing, and potatoes that I was used to.
When our order was prepared, the same woman who took our order popped out of
the kitchen with a small bag. Inside were four square takeout boxes topped with fortune cookies
and chopsticks wrapped in thick paper. We thanked her and made our way out into the snow,
attempting to locate our car again.
The car ride home felt much longer, the mingling smell of orange chicken and
chow mien exponentially increasing my hunger. The snow was beginning to lighten up by the
time we reached my road, but it still clung to everything I could see. While I usually wasn’t a fan
of the snow, the effect created an overwhelming sense of calm and the white, pristine view
looked like something out of a Christmas movie. Despite the strange circumstances it
reestablished the kind of excitement reserved for this one day a year.
We braced ourselves against the cold as we made our final journey from the car
back inside. I walked in the front door and my siblings, who were still glued to the screen of the
television, the bright colors illuminating their faces. As I closed the front door all attention was
immediately drawn to the brown paper bag under my arm. We all scrambled to set the table and
distribute the still warm takeout boxes.
As we all sat around the table there wasn’t much conversation. We all just sat and
ate, enjoying each other’s company as the snow continued to fall outside. Even though the night
had been a little more chaotic than usual, we had still managed to create the same warm, loving
atmosphere that always made the holidays so wonderful.
 Even though our stove is now up and running again, ever since that year my
family has established a new tradition. Every year, on the 25th of December, my mother and I
make the same cold trip to Ocean Star Chinese restaurant. It may not be a traditional Christmas
dinner, but we still get to enjoy the tradition of family, which is what Christmas is all about.