At first it’s just the smell, wafting through the halls and doorways, into my bedroom. It’s a sweet, addicting smell that hangs in the nostrils and leaves you grasping for more when it fades. It reels me in, drags me out of my sea of blankets and pulls me into the kitchen. Then it’s the sound, popping, sizzling, cracking, leaping, bustling, dozens of tiny bodies jumping like mad. Pajama clad and with foggy eyes, I walk in for a closer look. There simple little cylinders, reddish-brown, shining in the late morning sunlight that lights the room. I believe in little sausages.
It may seem ridiculous to pick little smoky sausages as the one thing, more than any other, that I believe in, and that is because it is by itself. But these little rolls of heaven mean more to me than just a taste or a smell, they symbolize family. My family has had many Christmas traditions ranging from sleeping under the tree to searching for a hidden ornamental pickle to decide who opens the first present. These traditions all faded as we grew and now are extinct. The tradition that still remains is having a big breakfast on Christmas morning with the prized item, which we only have once a year, little smoky sausages. It is this single moment every year that family and I sit together, without a care in the world, knowing the beauty of family, and the beauty of life.
I am the youngest son in my family of seven, loving mom, supportive dad, and my incredible four older brothers, and over the past nine years I have had to watch my brothers leave the house one by one to college. It was hard to see them go, but I certainly could manage. It was quieter around the house without them and the quietness increased every year. But I didn’t realize how much I missed them until we were all back together. My family was so monumental in my process of maturing and growing, they made me who I am and support me in who I will be. Being able to feel the glory of not having a worry in the world, sitting with my reunited family, laughing and joking at the breakfast table is my idea of perfection. It is not that the Christmas breakfast is the only time I feel this connection, but it embodies it so well. This was even more evident to me this year because it was the first time that I had left the household for the semester. Coming back engrained in me even further the sense of love and acceptance that my family has granted me. At this breakfast table, there is never pressure to be polite or proper and there is no situation that can’t be handled with a playful joke.
I believe in family, I believe in traditions and reunions, I believe in love unbounded, I believe in little sausages.
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