There is something very special about visiting London during the holidays. The streets and stores are beautifully decorated and an overall "spirit" of the season is evident throughout the city. No matter where you stroll, there's "Christmas in the air" - whether it's the rows of fresh wreaths hung in Edwardian doorways, the gold holly and red berry garland that decorates Regent Street, the twinkle lights illuminating the posh shopping on Jermyn Street, the musical decorations inspired by the Rolling Stones on Carnaby Street, the Santa Land and Christmas Market in Hyde Park, the enormous fully decorated tree in Trafalgar Square, or the giant red ornaments at Covent Garden.
Of course Victorian London has had a strong role in how we celebrate Christmas today. A visit to the recently renovated The Charles Dickens Museum will remind anyone of the British influence on this festive holiday. As most of us know, Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol, which was published on December 19, 1843 and is often considered responsible for the revival of Christmas celebrations.
It may surprise some to know that Christmas was not a holiday in early America. From 1659 to 1681, the celebration of Christmas was actually outlawed in Boston. Anyone exhibiting the Christmas spirit was fined five shillings. After the American Revolution, English customs fell out of favor, including Christmas. Christmas wasn't declared a federal holiday until June 26, 1870. Apart from adding to the language of Christmas, with "scrooge","bah, humbug!" and all the rest of it, Dickens' book essentially renewed the Christmas tenets of family, good cheer, feasting, gift-giving and charity as well as popularizing the phrase "Merry Christmas!"
I associate mail order food with my father. When I was growing up, he and I had very few connections. He took me to only one professional football game. He never came to Back-to-School Night and had no interest in any of my hobbies. I remember him as dour, not very talkative and disapproving. I was part of his second family and he was, I’m certain, just a bit too old to have a young kid running around. 
from Dino and Martha De Laurentiis. It looks good in its elaborate wrapping, and tastes good, too, especially as French toast. But the reason we love it so much has more to do with its power to remind us - like a photograph - of the many evenings we’ve spent with this remarkable family - here in LA, in Florence, and, on the eve of the Millennium in, of all places, the South Pacific. 
as a Christmas present a few years ago, and I use it constantly. It's wand shaped, which makes it really fun to use. Sometimes I like to pretend it's a violin bow while I zest lemons and such. It also has a scabbard, and that's cool. The best thing about it is that your arm doesn't get tired, but your parmesan turns into fluffy, salty snow. It would fit nicely in a stocking, and you should seriously get one if you haven't already. 
. They are the perfect size for relatively guilt-free meat consumption and are always tender and delicious regardless of how rare or well-done you like yours cooked. They turn a regular steak dinner into something special. 
each year and it has become one of the highlights of the holiday season for me. While others herald the arrival of mail at this time of year, bringing cards and letters from family and friends, I anxiously await the postman's delivery of a package filled with these delicious nuts. I don't know what it is about them (they're a pain in the neck to open and I don't eat them at any other time during the year), but to me the arrival of the pistachios (like the lighting of the tree at Rock Center or the first of a gazillion broadcasts of IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE) lets me know that the holidays have truly begun. 
. The blue one with the white polka dots, for example, is from Amy; the sheer, short vintage one with the letter “M” embroidered on the right breast – a gift from my stepdaughter Sal; the white-on-white striped one with the pink rickrack and the yellow, green, purple and rose circles – courtesy of my niece Jennifer. The point is not that I don’t have any; the issue with me and aprons is that I don't put one on til after the barn door is closed. When de Kooning dots of marinara dribble from my tasting spoon onto my best white blouse (the one with the trumpet sleeves, and I still don’t know how that happened because I swear I was holding that spoon right over the pot), after Rorschach blots of dark brown gravy appear on my favorite navy crepe dress, as a constellation of hot caramel from the Tarte Tatin splatters from my cast iron skillet onto my red cashmere cardigan – only then do I decide to tie on an apron. This is not good. This is not why God invented them. If only someone would call and remind me that in a battle between Minestrone and me, the Minestrone will always win – now that would be a perfect Christmas present. 
that I can use to dig a hole in my backyard and bury all the holiday cakes, candy and long interminable accounts of what the year was like for everyone in their family that are sent our way. 
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cookware! 
When I was a kid, say about 7 or 8, my dad brought home a holiday gift that was emblematic of his personality: Frankenstein’s monster, a foot high, standing on a metal pedestal, dressed all in black with a large flat chalk green plastic head, decorated with bumpy zigzag cherry red scars. His black gash of a mouth spread across his face in a faint smile. The best part about this Frankenstein was the little switch on his back. At my father’s insistence, I pushed that switch and the monster, arms outstretched, started to shimmy back and forth and side to side. Then just as suddenly, my sister and I could hear a little grinding sound and click, off slid his pants. There he was, Frankenstein’s monster, no longer shimmying, just standing on his pedestal in red and white striped boxers. That faint smile of his now revealed a slight insouciance. Our gleeful giggles were overpowered by my father’s healthy, if sinister, chortle. To this day I am still not sure whether he loved the toy or our reaction to it. Knowing him, though, my money’s on the toy.
It’s become fashionable to say that your favorite holiday is Thanksgiving, and every so often I say those words. What I mean is that Thanksgiving is a holiday that’s entirely about food. The glorious turkey. The stuffing your mother used to make. And pies, pies, pies. When you say your favorite holiday is Thanksgiving, you’re not just praising Thanksgiving – you’re secretly dissing Christmas, with all its mercenary trappings and its promise of day-after holiday depression.