If you’ve been with me for a while, whether you first found me through our little Cape May flower farm, the roadside stand, or because you were looking for a local Cape May florist, you already know this about me:

I am a small, immediate-family-only holiday person.

Five people.
No seating chart.
No borrowed chairs.
No extra towels mysteriously disappearing into guest rooms.

Just the five of us. That’s my version of Christmas bliss.

But for years (and I honestly don’t remember how this started), Steve’s brother Tony, his wife Bunny, and one of their daughters would join us for Christmas dinner.

Bunny is Jewish, Tony converted, and their kids were raised Jewish as well.

Which meant that our Christmas dinner became the one day of the year Tony ate ham.

And because I am apparently incapable of making one thing, I always cooked two mains:

“Prime” rib (and yes, prime is in quotes, because while it’s not technically prime grade, everyone still calls it prime rib), and a spiral ham.

Which meant:

More cooking.
More cleaning.
More pressure to “entertain.”
More everything that I… don’t enjoy.

(I love people. I just don’t love hosting them.)

Well, this year, plot twist, Tony and his family decided to go on vacation instead.

And while I truly wish them a lovely trip, I’m also quietly hoping this becomes a long-standing new tradition.

Nothing personal.

Really.

I just don’t like to entertain.

So we were back to our core five.

Which made me think, Great! I’ll cook like I’m feeding a reasonable number of humans.

Well.

I did not.

With three carnivorous males in the house, I ordered a five-rib roast.

A roast that, according to the butcher, “should easily feed ten.”

That roast barely lasted until lunch the next day.

Gone.

Reduced to memories and a greasy roasting pan.

What is it about men and their unquenchable thirst for red meat?

Is there a memo?
A secret meeting?

Which brings me to my very important Christmas question for you:

Are you a “keep it small and simple” holiday person… or a “the more the merrier, bring extra chairs” type?

And bonus question (because I’m genuinely curious):

How much meat would you have bought for three hungry men?

Hit reply. I promise I’ll read every answer (and feel either completely validated or mildly horrified).

At any rate, I like my holidays the same way I like winter on the farm, scaled back, intentional, and without the pressure to perform.

Winter at a working flower farm in Cape May is a different kind of beautiful.

No armfuls of blooms.
No frantic running around like a one-woman florist octopus.
Just resting fields, empty beds, muddy boots by the door, seed catalogs on the table, and a lot of quiet planning.

This is the slow season for our little local flower farm.

It’s when we dream up next year’s tulips, ranunculus, and summer bouquets.
It’s when we sketch out what the flower stand will look like, what workshops we’ll offer, and what kind of flowers we want to grow for our Cape May weddings and subscriptions.

Fewer flowers.
Fewer expectations.
But plenty of anticipation.

Traditions, on the farm or at the dinner table, don’t have to be big to be meaningful.

Sometimes they’re just familiar meals, familiar people, and knowing exactly how much you don’t want to entertain.

Tell me… what’s your holiday style?