Read by Michael Flamel

There comes a point in every gardener’s life when we realize that loving plants is about more than just growing them. For me, that moment came one holiday season when I decided I needed to do more than just enjoy the aromas wafting from my father’s kitchen. Cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, allspice, and ginger filled the air so thickly you could almost taste them before the first cookie left the oven.

Instead of simply waiting for the pies, cakes, and steaming cups of mulled cider to appear, I sat my father down with a notepad and a patient ear. I asked him about each spice—where it came from, how he used it, and whether it would grow in our Sacramento garden.

That was all the invitation Dad needed. He began with cinnamon—“the inner bark of a tropical tree,” he explained—and quickly moved on to nutmeg and its twin, mace, both from the nutmeg tree of the Spice Islands. He told me cloves were flower buds dried in the sun, and allspice, despite its name, came from a single berry grown in Jamaica. Ginger, on the other hand, was a root we might actually coax from a pot at home.

Soon, my notebook was full of stories: spice caravans winding across deserts, ships sailing oceans heavy with fragrant cargo, fortunes made and wars fought over the tiniest seeds. According to Dad, the spice trade wasn’t just about flavor—it was the spark that ignited globalization, stitching the far corners of the earth together with cinnamon sticks and peppercorns.

And in his kitchen, all that history was reborn in simpler form: pumpkin pies, gingerbread men, eggnog dusted with nutmeg, cider steeped with cinnamon sticks and cloves. The flavors of the season carried with them not just sweetness and warmth but centuries of adventure and exchange.

For a gardener like me, the story carried an extra message. Some spices, like ginger, mint, or even coriander seed (better known as cilantro in its leafy form), can be coaxed from a backyard plot. Others will always arrive in small glass jars from faraway lands. But either way, each holiday recipe carries a whole world within it.

So now, when I bite into a cookie or sip a spiced drink, I remember that evening with Dad, and I treasure both the flavors on my tongue and the stories behind them.

Every family has a holiday flavor that brings memories rushing back. Maybe it’s your grandmother’s gingerbread, or the clove-studded oranges you made as a child, or even a savory stew with a secret dash of cinnamon.

I’d love to hear your holiday spice stories—or any food traditions that make your season bright. Please share them in the comments below. After all, just like spices, our stories are meant to be passed along and savored. ❖