My Childhood Dining Room: Where Chaos, Cookies, and Memories Were Made
Let me tell you, growing up in my house during the holidays was like stepping into a festive wonderland—except with way more food and a whole lot more noise. We didn’t just have “big” family gatherings, we had BIG gatherings. You know, the kind where the entire extended family shows up, plus a few friends, neighbors, and maybe even some random guy who just really loves pigs in a blanket. And honestly? The more, the merrier!
Now, let’s talk about my mom. She could whip up food for an army without breaking a sweat. If you walked into our dining room, you’d find trays of German-Russian deliciousness like “pigs in a blanket”—which, by the way, are not what you’re thinking. Forget hot dogs. I’m talking about cabbage wraps stuffed with ground beef and rice, swimming in a glorious tomato sauce. My mom didn’t make one pan. Oh no. She made pan-loads. And don't get me started on the desserts. Peanut butter cookies? Check. Peanut brittle? Double check. Glass candy and Aunt Sally’s molasses cookies? Oh yeah. Fudge too, because why stop there? My biggest challenge was eating so many treats that I literally had no room left for the meal. Rookie mistake, every single time.
And the dining room itself? Well, picture this: a massive, carved William and Mary dining set that looked like it came straight out of a royal palace. The buffet held our fancy china, because holiday meals required plates with gold trim, obviously. My mom was all about setting a proper table with candles and centerpieces, while I was all about sneaking another molasses cookie without getting caught. Red and white gingham curtains framed the windows, which is probably why my book’s recipe pages feature that same classic checkered pattern.
Oh, and you can’t forget the vintage Garland range in the corner. It was always decked out with antique cooking tools like it was ready to cook something and star in a period drama. And, of course, we had a Christmas tree up year-round. Yep, you heard that right. Popcorn garland, the works. We were that family. It wasn’t weird. It was festive. Let’s just go with that.
The best part? The table wasn’t just for eating (or inhaling) food. It was for cards, too. We played "Kings in the Corner" with my grandma—an absolute card shark in disguise. My siblings and my uncle were constantly cracking jokes, keeping the room filled with laughter. It was pure chaos, in the best way possible.
One holiday, the kitchen became a knoepla-making factory. There was my grandma, stirring the pot, my mom cutting the dough, and my siblings and I, up to our elbows in flour, mixing and rolling the dough like little assembly line workers. It wasn’t just about the food; it was about the togetherness, the teamwork, and the inevitable flour fight (okay, that was probably just me).
All these moments came rushing back when I was writing A Sweet Season. In the book, Oliver and his mom bake cookies together, passing down the skills and love that only kitchen bonding can bring. Just like in my childhood, where the kitchen was the place where family traditions—and a lot of treats—were made.
I hope when you read A Sweet Season, it brings back some of your own favorite holiday memories. Or, if you didn’t grow up with a big family or wild holiday dinners, I hope it helps you imagine the joy of a festive gathering, no matter the size. Because really, whether you’re feeding 20 relatives or just your dog under the table (hey, no judgment), it’s about the moments we create together.
So here’s to family, food, and a dining room filled with laughter and love. And if you ever need some extra pigs in a blanket, my mom’s got you covered.
