For as long as I can remember, Christmas in our home never looked like the glossy pictures people love to share online. There were no matching pajamas or perfectly wrapped gifts lined up under a designer tree. What we had was simpler, quieter, and deeply rooted in who my mother was.
Every Christmas Eve, she cooked a dinner that filled our small apartment with warmth and familiarity. The kind of smell that lingered in the hallway and made neighbors pause as they walked past our door. If money allowed, there was a honey-glazed ham. If not, there was always something hearty and comforting. Mashed potatoes whipped until creamy, green beans cooked low and slow with bits of bacon, and cornbread that came out golden and soft in the center. Continue reading…
