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It’s not the lights nor the garlands on the stairs that signifies the start of Christmas, at least not for me. When my mom has our helpers bring out the baking utensils from the cabinets and the aroma of gingerbread wafts out of the kitchen, that’s when I know that for the Dado family, the holiday season has begun.

I can’t remember how old I was when my mom first started making gingerbread men come late November, but those little brown cookies have always been a part of my childhood, like my pink-and-purple bike except seasonal. As soon as the first batch of gingerbread men came out of the oven, she’d put one of the cookies on a plate and place it on the table. Then she’d bring out a picture book of the story of the gingerbread man and read it to my sister and I. The story, in case you don’t know, is about a baker who bakes a gingerbread man for him and his wife. Somehow the gingerbread man comes to life, realizes his creator’s plans for him, and runs away. Everyone in town tries to eat him but he just keeps evading them until finally, a sly wolf tricks him into walking right into his jaws.

As soon as my mom was done reading us the story, my sister and I would scramble to the plate, eager to eat the first gingerbread man of the year. To our surprise, the plate would be empty. “The gingerbread man has escaped, find him!” After a mad search all over the room, we’d find the gingerbread man hiding among the books or by the computer keyboard.

My sister and I are adults now and much too old for gingerbread games. Many years later, my mom confessed that she’d have one of the helpers hide the gingerbread man while we were distracted by the story. (She also admitted to being Santa Claus.) That doesn’t keep me from feeling a little warm and fuzzy inside as gingerbread men bake in the oven and the house gets filled with the aroma of molasses and spice. I really should get around to learning how to make these cookies. This is a tradition I’d like to pass on to my children.

Go here for my mom’s gingerbread man recipe.