I've always been a sucker for traditions
There's something comforting about the familiarity of doing the same things from time to time, and Christmas seems to bring that out in people.
The best Christmas I can remember was when I was really small. I don't really know how old.
Maybe we were in the old house on Murray. Maybe not.
Doesn't matter, really.
My dad was working a half-day, so my mom, brothers, and I bussed to his office in the park across town. I don't know if I remember taking the bus before then. The city felt new from this angle, and bigger than I'd realized. The ride felt like it lasted forever.
My dad's office was down a bunch of winding roads in a lonely-looking building surrounded by trees, and he worked in a long room that smelled like cigarettes, with a window at the end.
The places my dad worked; offices, clubhouses, tended to smell old and it always made me feel safe to be in them.
We piled into the car and my parents took us for lunch at the nearby Pizza Hut. We continued that tradition for years, even after my dad's office moved downtown, and after we all stopped bussing there together.
(I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for those greasy, gooey slices.)
So tonight we're making pizza from scratch.
Because 1. Pizza Hut is expensive and not really worth it quality-wise and 2. there isn't one nearby and half of the tradition is sitting in that tacky lounge with the stained-glass lamps overhead drinking Diet Cokes out of plastic cups with straws.
So instead we went a little crazy at the Italian special food's store up the street.
Fresh pizza dough. Salami. Capicollo. Prosciutto. Mozzarella and omg mini mini bocconcini. Maybe toss some artichoke hearts or anchovies or crimini mushrooms on there - who knows.
The possibilities are endless.
And even though it won't be exactly the same as I remember, that's okay.
Because that's how new traditions start.