In my family, Christmas never began with decorations or music; it began with German Christmas cookies and the smell of butter, vanilla, and toasted almonds drifting through every room. The Schwarz‑Weiß Gebäck and Vanillekipferl were the heart of the season, a tradition my great‑grandmother carried with her when she left Germany to live in Hawaii after my great‑grandfather passed. She never used a written recipe, relying on memory and instinct, so before she died my grandmother sat beside her and wrote everything down: the measurements, the steps, and the little techniques my great‑grandmother had perfected over a lifetime. When my great‑grandmother died in 2010, my mom took over and has baked them faithfully every year since. I watched her shape the dough, every counter dusted with sugar and flour like a fresh snowfall. Ironic, considering we were in Hawaii, not the northeast. My mom always made enough to share with neighbors, coworkers, and my daughter’s teachers, who now wait for their yearly batch like clockwork. These cookies aren’t just treats; they’re a thread connecting me to the women who came before, a way of keeping my family’s history alive through something warm, simple, and sweet. 

– R

Relationship:  Grandchild of im/migrant Grandchild of im/migrant