On a cold winter day, my grandpa greets me, my brother and parents, in a big red suit. He has been anticipating our arrival all day.

We walk into the house and place our jackets on furniture from ten years before I was born. I stroll past where we will be feasting, set with a basket of bread and butter and two forks on the right, knife to the left.

Something enters my nostrils. I sniff stronger to get the auromas; a mix of robust tomato, savory oregano, and the sweat of meat swirls in a pot.

As my parents converse with relatives in the living room, I make my way to the kitchen and open the lid of the pot and receive a steam facial. My grandma puts the lid back in place and tells me, “go find your cousin and wait for dinner to be done.”

I find them crawling under a fake evergreen. As any kid would, I join them in the great scavenger hunt of the 25th.

I place the presents I shook around back where they were as covering up a crime scene.

My grandma calls for everyone to make their plate and I am third in line anticipating if this year will taste like years past.

I take a seat at the elongated table pick out my piece of bread and lather it in butter. I pick up the nearest fork and swirl the spaghetti and sauce and top it off with a coin of sausage. Nothing could be better on a cold winter day.