A forward spin improves morale on Christmas Eve.

Iloved Christmas as a child, which is probably an obvious statement. Not just for the usual reasons, but for my family’s rich traditions.

Our Christmas dinner, called wigilia, required several days of preparation, several pounds of flour, and several aspirin for my mother, who usually had a headache by the time the nearly 100 pierogi we made each year were rolled, stuffed and cooked. The occasional flour fight didn’t help, either.

Wigilia is supposed to have a dozen courses; we could only ever manage five or six, beginning with oplatek and pickled herring and ending with prune-filled doughnuts and babka.

It’s also a meatless meal, but eating potato and cheese pierogi and mushroom borscht never felt like much of a sacrifice.

Every year we set the table with an extra place for the “unexpected visitor” who might turn up at the door.

Then my father would corral my sisters and me on the front porch so we could search the twilight for the first visible star. Only after we found it (on snowy or cloudy nights we imagined we found it) could dinner begin.

After coffee and tea were served, we opened family presents in the living room. Then my parents would try to persuade us to take a nap before we attended midnight mass in Polish.

The memories of people we lost were particularly strong at Christmas. Looking around the table was always a reminder of what had changed that year.

Now there are husbands and grandchildren (including a new one this year) squeezed around the table. Fear not, we haven’t yet crowded out the place for the unexpected visitor.

Despite the changes, our tradition—as rich as ever—remains. Tradition, at its core, is memory. If it is forgotten or not practiced, it will disappear. I don’t want that to happen in my family.