There are certain recipes that aren’t written on paper as much as they’re written on our hearts. For me, it’s my grandmother’s fudge.

I make amazing fudge, the kind of fudge that disappears within hours, that gets people hovering around the kitchen to “just check” if it’s set. The recipe came from my grandmother, passed down like a secret handshake, and over the years it became one of the most cherished family traditions. My late husband, John, loved it. His mother, Yvonnette, loved it just as much. Every year, when the holidays rolled around and I stood at the stove stirring, John and I would call her to say, “Guess what we’re making?” She always told us to make sure we got a good “do” on it. This was her signature stamp of approval.

It was such a tender ritual, the calling, the stirring, the laughter, and the shared anticipation. After John died, I couldn’t bring myself to make it for several years. Grief has a way of placing a soft veil over the traditions we once held dear. They feel too heavy, too loud, too full of echoes. Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is set a tradition down for a while.

Last year, though, the fudge found its way back into the center of our celebrations. And last night, as I stood at the stove again, I felt a swell of emotion I didn’t expect. Some things, like a smell, a recipe card, the way a spoon scrapes the bottom of a pan, bring back the people we miss with stunning clarity. In those moments, memory becomes a form of presence.

How Our Elders Shape the Rituals We Carry Forward

My grandmother was Italian, which meant food wasn’t just nourishment, it was our family language. Every holiday, without exception, the entire extended family gathered at Grandma and Papa’s house. There were well-worn aprons, crowded tables, too many conversations happening at once, and enough food to feed a small city. Those meals taught me what togetherness feels like. They also taught me that traditions don’t survive by accident. They survive because someone lovingly tends to them.

As the years passed, our family grew and changed. My elders have passed on. New partners have been welcomed. New babies have been born. Some years the table looks familiar; other years, it feels entirely new. And slowly, I’ve learned that traditions aren’t meant to be preserved in amber. They are living things. They stretch, adapt, breathe, and evolve as we do.

Letting Traditions Evolve Without Losing Their Roots

There’s a delicate balance between honoring what came before and creating space for what is emerging. I’ve found myself walking that line often:

• Keeping the recipes but letting someone else take the lead in the kitchen
• Maintaining the rituals but inviting new voices into them
• Preserving the essence but not insisting on the exact form

Traditions become burdens only when we insist they must look exactly as they always have. But when we approach them with openness, they become a bridge that can connect generations, honor our elders, and welcome the wisdom and love that new members bring.

Why Traditions Matter So Much, Especially After Loss

Rituals are more than tasks or habits. They’re anchors. They help us locate ourselves in the story of our family. And after the death of someone we love, they carry even more meaning.

When we stir a pot the way our grandmother taught us…

When we say a phrase only our mother used…

When we make the dish our spouse always asked for…

We are doing more than remembering. We are allowing their influence to live on in us. Traditions are a form of legacy. They remind us that those who shaped us continue to shape us, even in their absence.

A Gentle Invitation

As you move through this holiday season, I hope you’ll take a moment to reflect on the traditions that have shaped you, the ones you keep, the ones you’ve released, and the ones you’re ready to evolve.

• Which rituals carry the fingerprints of your elders?
• Which memories surface when you prepare a beloved dish or bring out a cherished decoration?
• Which traditions still fit, and which ones need room to grow?

There is no right way to honor the people who came before us. There is only your way — tender, imperfect, evolving, and deeply human.

And sometimes, that way begins with a pot of fudge and a whispered reminder to get a good “do” on it.