The first Christmas tree Andras and I bought together was an 8-foot blue spruce for our 8-square-foot studio apartment in New York City, just two months after we married. I remember how the way I looked at him, carrying that tree like it was no big deal, ignoring the prickers or the weight of it, crossing our busy streets to our quiet cul de sac on the East River. That night I lit candles. I made a perfect omelet, salad and a chocolate pie. He put on music. We both smiled, a lot.

That was 11 years ago this year. Honestly, it’s been a looooong, time since we put that kind of effort into a meal just for us.

I remember everything about the first year I didn’t go home to be with my parents on Thanksgiving. It was the fall after I met my (now)  husband. I’d already lived in New York for a long time, but it was the first year I felt like there was something in the city worth sticking out a major holiday for. I cried a little at the thought of missing that special family time, the epic meal, the allocating of chores--I would brine the turkey (as I was the only one who knew how, or why it mattered), my sisters would tackle creamed corn, dad was on mashed potatoes, my brother flexed his cranberry relish card while my mom made pies--all the perfect pies. But I also wondered what new and perhaps (one day) meaningful new traditions might join them.

That morning, Andras made me the most horrible buckwheat pancakes known to man. I cried miserably. It was a disaster. But, in true Andras fashion (after all, I later married him), he made up for it--taking me on a slow, cozy bike ride to Chinatown for the most soul-warming steamed pork buns which we ate, street side, from crinkly brown paper bags. It wasn’t a perfect new tradition, but it was a stepping stone…