What Not To Do at 11:30pm on Christmas Eve! (DaLocalChef)

I'm sure that this could be a long list.

• Don't decide to take up chainsaw juggling.
• Do not paint yourself blue and go door to door as Santa Smurf.
• Do not use your wife`s Epi-lady to trim your beard.
• etc..................

However, I have learned from experience that one thing you should definitely not do at 11:30 P.M. on Christmas Eve is decide that you want to revive the family tradition of cinnamon buns on Christmas morning. While a nice and generous gesture, it needs to be reserved for a more appropriate time! Or so I found out........ the hard way.

It was late on December 24th, fresh from the traditional German Christmas Eve celebration at the in-laws, and stuffed full of knackwurst and potato salad, that I found myself craving something sweet. A quick trip to the kitchen revealed a world of sweet sticky choices, but none were what I wanted. Then as I brushed by the fridge, my eyes lit on one of the spice jars attached to the freezer. CINNAMON! Of course. Suddenly, all the memories came flooding back. Christmas morning, with mom pulling the hot, bubbling tray of cinnamon buns from the oven. That wonderful smell of sweet yeasty happiness flooding the house. That was it. I had to make cinnamon buns. It can`t take too long, can it?

Within a few minutes, thanks to the joy that is my heavy-duty KitchenAid mixer, I had a ball of sweet yeast dough proofing in a warm oven. Within 45 minutes it had puffed up light and fluffy and I had the rest of my ingredients ready to go.

I glanced over at the clock, somehow expecting it to be 12:30. maybe a quarter to one. Ummm, no. It was already 1:30 and I wasn't even close to being done. SO I put my head down and got to work. I rolled out the dough and brushed it with a generous(read excessive) amount of softened butter. Next came the brown sugar and cinnamon mixture. The smells were already transporting me, and I hadn't even turned the oven on yet! A quick roll and then I sliced them up and transferred them to the pan I had prepared for them. A wrap of cling film and into the fridge to rise overnight.

Time for one last check of the clock, on my way to bed. It couldn't be later than 2, could it? 2:27!?!?!? You gotta be kidding me!!! I crawled into bed and settled in for what I hoped would be a good night's sleep.

That plan for a good night's sleep failed to take into account Christmas morning, excited children and an equally excited German Shepherd. At 6:45 I crawled out of bed and pulled out the buns for a last rise before the oven. They smelled so good, even cold from the fridge. But that was nothing, compared to the smells that filled the house as they baked. And when they came out of the oven, I was taken back to those Christmas mornings I missed. It took every ounce of self-control I had to let them cool, before grabbing the first of many I ate that morning.

As I stood in the kitchen, watching my wife and kids licking happy cinnamonny goodness from their fingers, I knew that the late night had been more than worth it. I had been able to conjure up the magic that my mother had brought to every Christmas morning, and then shared it with those that I love.

We celebrated our first Christmas in our new house this year. It was a magical time. We began what will become our own family's memories and traditions. What my mother started has now become a part of my family's traditions and hopefully will someday pass on to my kids' families as well.

But from now on, I'm getting a much earlier start!!!

In Memory (DaLocalChef)

Three and a half years ago, my Nan, Esma Wilson passed away. Not a day goes by without me thinking of her. When faced with moral decisions, I still say to myself, "What would Nan do?" She was an amazing lady. Tough when she needed to be, but filled with more love than I ever thought possible. I miss her, and I always will.


As a child, I knew that my Nan was magic in the kitchen. I loved everything she cooked. But above all things, I loved her molasses cookies. Deep brown, crisp and ever so slightly salty. They were the best cookies in the world. And there was always a big pickle jar of them sitting on the kitchen counter.


Last winter, my Aunt Karin gave me a little plastic bag of cookies when I came to visit her. She had made Nan's molasses cookies. The sight and smell of them was enough to start me crying. I took one bite, and I was in the old family house on Champlain Street, sneaking cookies out of the jar as the family listened to my cousin play the piano. And there was Nan, catching me with a quick stare, and then shaking her head when I moved to put the cookies back.


I came home, and tucked the few remaining cookies away in the freezer, grabbing a half-cookie when I felt in need of a pick-me-up. Last week, I ate the last 2 cookies. Then I asked Aunt Karin for the recipe.


I never expected to feel as nervous as I did when I began the recipe. These were NAN's molasses cookies. Messing them up was not an option. I took my time, and hovered over them like a mother hen as they baked. Once they were done, I sat down with a small stack of them, and a glass of milk. They were just as I remembered them. And I wasn't in my Nan's house.


She was in mine.