It was kind of a surprise to me when I realized how much I care about tradition. As a rebellious teenager (is there any other kind?) I saw myself as completely unconventional, someone who wanted to break with the past completely. But lurking under those attempts to figure out who I might be was the real me: the one who appreciates routine and sameness, the one who thrives on rules and order. The one who relies on the careful acting out of family traditions, and of personal traditions, year after year, in order to maintain the continuity that makes me feel safe and protected in what can be a fairly chaotic world.
One of those traditions is one I’ve written about here before: Every Christmas Eve, for as long as I can remember, my family has gathered to eat beer cheese soup. There are other key components to this tradition: the oyster soup that my Dad prefers, the beef stew that my Aunt Penny brings every year, and the tiny summer sausage sandwiches that accompany whichever soup you decide (or all three, as is more often the case). But for me, the beer cheese soup has always been the centerpiece. Over the years, the recipe has changed slightly, but the presence of the soup never does. And the soup held such a sacred place in my mind that I would not deign to make it any other time of year.
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