The smell of evergreen and gingerbread linger through the crevices of the beige walls and Christmas decorations. Sounds of laughter, songs of Frank Sinatra, and scrapings of wrapping paper fill the air. My mother yells “Ashley come downstairs!”

I rush down the slick, newly polished steps followed by a herd of elephants: my cousins. I take a sharp right and I am greeted by my mother and aunt. My eyes scan the room seeing pots, cooking ingredients, and utensils scattered as if a tornado rampaged through the kitchen. “What happened?” I ask.

My mother grins. I suspiciously turn around to look at my cousins. They have disappeared, scrambling to the laundry room to put on overalls, snow boots, and mittens. I turn back to face my mother and aunt, shifting my eye contact between their brown eyes.

My aunt intervenes. “You are going to learn how to make Cream Cheese Spinach.”  

I stand, taken back that my relatives want me to make our classic dish at Christmas, but filled with happiness I have the privilege to make it this Christmas.

In the kitchen, packages of spinach and breadcrumbs are dispersed. I hear the DING of the timer. I open the oven, and the kitchen is filled with the aroma of the Cream Cheese Spinach.

My cousins return, their hair frozen from the cold, and everyone is seated in their festive red and green apparel at the rectangular table. We patiently wait for the dishes to pour out. I feel overjoyed surrounded by laughter, songs, and scrapings. I love my family.  My mom walks into the dining room and does the honors of presenting the dish I made, “here is the dish Ashley made...”