By: Mary Ann Ellis

In the cake plate a single piece of homemade fruit cake stands in its crumbs. The last of the wrapping paper has been incinerated—the smiling Santas, the golden bells, the green wreaths decked with holly will soon melt into the flames. The hambone from our Christmas feast will turn to soup and swim in noodles and tomatoes with a sprinkling of chives. The tree will remain up until January 1, not because I’m superstitious, but because I savor every minute the tree graces the living room. I’ll drink coffee and hot tea from my...

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