The fragrance of the cinnamon greets me first. We measure out heaping teaspoons of the spices which feel like a holiday wafting right up from the bowl.

The mixer contributes its own rhythm, thumping against the counter as it struggles to keep up with the large mass of dough it’s helping join with whirl after whirl of the paddle against flour and butter and molasses and delicious spices. Neutral shades of ingredients turn to a rich, dark, smooth burnt umber.

I can see his hands first: so capable and so skilled. They piloted numerous aircraft over five decades, carefully connected untold circuits on a complex train board for antique trains, took notes on legal documents for such a variety of transactions and projects, and scribbled changing medication combinations for my mama’s winding health journey. Those hands wrapped “just because” presents of puzzles and clever toys for grandbabies in cheerful paper, those hands penned heartfelt letters to his children and grandchildren. And those hands held my own, shaking as we grieved my mama, firm and steadfast as we walked though life together. More than anything: those hands held, protected, and played with little babies. He was never happier than holding them, dancing with them, stroking their soft baby and toddler and little kid hair, clasping their tiny hands in his for crossing streets and scary moments.

Those beautifully talented Grampy hands also knew how to arrange cookie cutters just so, maximizing the available oval of pepparkakor dough, a nod to his Swedish heritage and some of his favorite flavors. I can see the gold glint of his wedding ring which adorns my finger now. I can see the red plastic cutters, each with a story about it being someone’s favorite, or the best one to decorate with sprinkles, or the coveted shape everyone wanted from the two tier cookie plate on Christmas Eve. The rocking horse cookie cutter always invited an extra sweet smile across his face and for a second I could see a very young Stevie standing at his grandmother’s side, eager and earnest, learning how to bake on their afternoons together.

We never missed a moment to bake cookies together at Christmastime. It was part of who we were as a family: Jan Wright always brought a tin of freshly baked cookies on every trip, they were seen as a necessity as much as a treat. Her cookies welcomed new neighbors and reminded babies at camp or college what home tasted like. Cookies as a compass, a north star? It feels right.

The copper star with fluted edges was one he always made extras of – that cutter dating back to his childhood. He made a pile of those stars, the beloved pepparkakor cookies in December 2020 with us before COVID arrived and changed the entire direction of our lives and our future together. Can still see him at the counter guiding an effervescent two year old and a thrilled five year old with tiny sized rolling pins. Trying to keep them from eating too much of the dough, and laughing when he failed. This joy, so warm and real. The impossibility of that juxtaposition within days: between a burst of life as we knew it and life (and death) dark and horrific, as we had never known it.

Christmas 2020 unfolded differently than any we ever shared as a family, and the trauma of his terrifying slide into danger in the hospital on and right after Christmas Day and his death days after the new year will never leave the depths of my being.

And somehow still I want to rise to greet what hurts so terribly with what is bright, and relentless, and love filled, and true: our connection. Our moments. Our traditions.

I slide his perfect cookie spatula under hot shapes of trees and bells and stars, the spatula which he took from his grandmother’s kitchen and carried with him and then with my mom and our family from the 1960s until today, where it now resides in my kitchen. It’s the only one just perfect for moving dough from countertop to cookie sheet and cookie sheet to cooling rack. I hear his voice extolling the virtues of the spatula and the deliciousness of our baking work, and the clarity of his laughter, a sound which feels safe and real.

I behold the cookies on the cooling rack, the magic of holiday spices swirling up up up, and I reach for the fluted star for my first bite. His childhood memories in a shape. My North Star. My history. How I came to be here, and how I can keep giving them forward to my babies and the world.

We refuse to let your memory fade even a little, Daddy. We strive to keep you here, and we will. At Christmas, and always. Merry Christmas Eve, until we can bake together again. I love you.