We were in Canada, in my grandmother’s finished basement, stretched out on a pull-out couch in front of a roaring brick fireplace. The downstairs family room smelled faintly of clean floors and firewood, the scent of anticipation for the biggest night of the season for our family. Christmas Eve

My sister and I were supposed to be asleep. Instead, we were giggling, as usual.

The soundtrack to my grandfather climbing the stairs to bed was unmistakable: one fart per step, followed by his own small, delighted giggle after each toot. It was a talent he delivered with confidence.

As the house was settling for the night, a light flicked on in the kitchen down the hall. We assumed it was someone getting a glass of water… or sneaking a wedge of good cheese from the fridge like a nocturnal cat burglar.

Then came the sound.

A loud clank.
Then another.
Metal bouncing off tile.

A low moan followed by a swear word so forceful it could have starred in its own opera.

We flew off the pull-out and ran to the doorway, and there it was.

At our feet: a sea of lobster tails. Butterflied. Seasoned with olive oil, parsley, and fresh herbs. Scattered like deliciously heaven-scented fallen soldiers across the tile.

And in the middle of it all, my grandmother sprawled on the stairwell. Her nightgown was twisted, one slipper still on her foot while the other floated away on the olive-oil-and-lobster current, her glasses crooked on her face, staring up at us like she was trying to decide whether to yell or laugh first.

I tried. I really did.

But I couldn’t hold it in. I exploded in laugther.

Not a polite chuckle. Not even a giggle. A full-body, Santa-Claus-belly laugh that shook out of me like – well, like a tide of lobster tails being ejected from a baking sheet.

At first, she was furious. She unleashed a rapid-fire monologue of creative synonyms for “idiot,” in Italian. Then she took in the full scene, the lobster trail, her position on the stairs, the absurdity of it all, and she started laughing too.

We were expecting twenty people for Christmas Eve dinner. With the ten of us already in the house, you can imagine the sheer population of lobsters that had valiantly given their lives for Christmas Eve’s Feast of the Seven Fishes.

Once the laughter finally subsided, she swore us to secrecy.

Under no circumstances were we to tell my mother or my aunt that she’d fallen while hauling three baking sheets of lobster tails up the stairs, alone. The reasoning was logical: she’d moved them from the cantina to the kitchen refrigerator because it was colder upstairs.

Fair enough.

We gathered the lobster tails and brought them down to the kitchen to wash them, though it was wildly unnecessary. You could eat off my grandmother’s floors. Every night before bed, she swept and marinated the floor with a white vinegar and hot water cocktail that tickled our noses and made us hungry for the salt and vinegar potato chips that weren’t yet available in the states. She started everyday on a clean swept and polished slate.

While Nonna mopped, we washed.

We re-seasoned, re-prepped, and reset the trays like nothing had happened. Each baking sheet was carefully wrapped in foil. Then, solemn as altar servers, we each carried a tray upstairs and tucked the lobster tails into the refrigerator for the night.

The secret was safe.

No one ever found out.

Until now.

I’ve kept that secret for decades.

This is one of my core Christmas memories, not because of the lobster, or even the laughter, but because it was about care. About showing up. About fixing what spills, laughing when things go sideways, and doing what needs to be done together, quietly, lovingly, without applause.

That’s the kind of Christmas I come from.

And it feels like the perfect place to begin 15 Days of Christmas at The Creative Quill.

Over the next fifteen days, The Creative Quill will lean into that same spirit, stories, memories, odd little traditions, quiet observations, seasonal quirks, and the moments that rarely make it into polished holiday reels. Some pieces will be short and playful, others reflective or nostalgic, and a few slightly unhinged in the best possible way. We will be celebrating the humor, warmth, curiosity, and chaos of the season without the pressure to perform Christmas “correctly.”

These meaningful pauses arrive in a season that usually asks us to rush. Here is your invitation to pull up a chair and reflect on your own memories. Lose yourself in your own mix of good, bad, and beautifully awkward moments that make the holidays unforgettable. There’s plenty of room. No one will judge if the memories get a little lumpy around the edges, and no one is checking whether you’re remembering it the right way.