Naomi Weisman is a Canadian-Australian and mother of three, who loves to Ramble with her dog, cook for family and friends, and laugh whenever possible.
I wasn't raised in a family that celebrated Christmas, but growing up in Toronto, surrounded by people from so many different cultures, religions, and backgrounds, I was never far from someone else's celebrations.
Our family home was always a gathering place. My mother had an open-door policy when it came to mealtimes, and there was invariably room for another chair at the table. My friends were always welcome, whether they'd been invited in advance or just happened to be there when dinner was ready. My dad was famous for his Sunday brunches, and food was very much a part of how our family connected with people.
I suppose it's no surprise that my own home has turned out much the same way. I've always loved having people around my table, feeding them, and making them feel welcome. Some of my favourite memories involve a crowded kitchen, people helping themselves to seconds, and conversations that carry on long after the plates have been cleared.
When my children were small, we were often invited to Christmas and Chanukah celebrations at the homes of friends and neighbours. I loved that my children had the opportunity to experience traditions beyond our own, and to learn that being welcomed into someone else's celebration was something special.
Of course, I never wanted to arrive empty-handed. But I wasn't particularly interested in buying another candle, decorative ornament, or hostess gift that might eventually find its way into a drawer, never to be seen again.
Instead, I baked.
Cookies, squares, bars, and whatever else caught my fancy would come out of my kitchen in batches. I'd arrange them in festive tins, sometimes with layers of wax paper separating the different treats, and bring them along to whatever celebration we'd been invited to.
It became my little tradition within someone else's tradition.
I think there's something quite personal about giving someone something you've baked.
It's not simply about the finished product, although I certainly hope everything tastes good! It's about the time you've spent making it. Choosing the recipes, gathering the ingredients, measuring, mixing, waiting for the oven timer, and trying not to eat too many cookies before they make it into the tin.
When I brought those tins to someone's home, I wasn't just saying thank you for the invitation. I was contributing something to the celebration itself. My cookies and squares would find their way onto the sweets table alongside whatever traditional treats the family had prepared.
And I loved that. I hadn't grown up celebrating Christmas, but here was something I could offer that allowed me to participate in a meaningful way. I didn't have to share the religious or cultural significance of the occasion to appreciate the generosity of being included.
In a funny way, their celebration became a little bit mine, too.
Looking back, I realize that I learned this way of expressing affection from my parents.
My mother didn't need a special occasion to feed someone. If you were in our house and it was time to eat, you were eating. My father could turn an ordinary Sunday morning into an event simply by putting on a wonderful brunch and inviting people to gather around the table.
Neither of them would have described food as a love language, but that's exactly what it was. It was their way of saying, "You're welcome here. There's room for you. We're happy you've come."
And I suppose that's what I've carried into my own kitchen.
I've always loved the idea that something I've made with my own hands might become part of someone else's gathering, perhaps enjoyed over a cup of tea or passed around a table filled with family and friends. There's a different kind of pleasure in arriving with something you've made yourself, knowing that a little of your time and thought has gone into it.
Now that my children are grown, I've realized that I've gradually fallen out of the habit of baking for other people. Somewhere along the way, it became easier to grab a bottle of wine or a bowl of fruit to bring to a dinner party, and the festive tins have spent a lot more time tucked away in the cupboard.
There's absolutely nothing wrong with bringing wine or fruit, of course, but I do miss the ritual of baking something especially for someone. I miss choosing a recipe with a particular person in mind, spending an afternoon in the kitchen, and arriving at their door with something homemade.
And that's one of the reasons I'm so excited about our Holiday Baking Challenge.
I'm hoping it will encourage me to dust off those old recipes, try a few new ones, and get back into the habit of baking more often. Not because I need another hobby or more sweets in the house, but because I miss the pleasure of making something for someone else.
I also love the idea that we'll be sharing recipes, tips, and baking stories with one another throughout the challenge. After all, some of the best recipes are the ones that have been passed from one kitchen to another, often with a story attached.
I'm looking forward to spending more time in the kitchen, revisiting old favourites, discovering new recipes, and perhaps filling a few festive tins again. And I hope that along the way, some of you will find the same enjoyment in baking for the people in your lives.
After all, baking has never really been just about the cookies for me. It's about the thought, the time, and the affection that go into making something for someone else.
And sometimes, a tin of homemade cookies says thank you, I appreciate you, and I'm glad you're in my life, far better than words ever could.
READ MORE > Her Story, Rambler Cafe Blog
Leave a comment