The first year my mom made her famous Christmas wreath was in 1975.

That year, she found the Christmas wreath recipe in a magazine and decided to make it as her contribution to the Christmas Eve meal at her parents’ home in rural Iowa. It was a hit. Everyone loved the doughy interior rolled in butter and sugar sprinkles and the exterior dripping of frosting. With Mom’s added touch of decorating the top with candied berries, her annual wreath-making tradition began.

For every year since 1975, Mom has made these wreaths delighting our family at gatherings and friends with her annual edible holiday gifting. What began in her kitchen in Remsen, Iowa traveled with her to Kingman, Arizona, where she slipped little aprons onto her grandchildren—teaching them first how to make the wreaths, and then enjoying the sweet reward of their hard work.

As a child, I delighted in the smells of rising yeast and baking bread. The sights of flour-covered counters and sinks filled with bowls streaked in drizzled frosting, fill my memory. I would sit with my back to our warm oven, waiting for the bread to finish baking so I could accompany Mom on her deliveries.

Delivering the wreaths to neighbors and friends was a cherished part of the process. The conversations and time spent with recipients offered a window into the homes of people in my small town, deepening my sense of community and gratitude.

In December of 2009, life took an unexpected turn for our family, with me suddenly divorced and single-parenting through Christmas. After having my own family unit intact for nineteen years, I found myself navigating the holidays in an entirely new way. Never being alone on Christmas before, my parents made sure I wouldn’t be that year either. They left their warm Arizona home to spend weeks with me and my kids in a very cold Nebraska.

A few days before Christmas, Mom picked up on my melancholy and simply asked what she could do to help. I didn’t have to consider the question for long.

“Can we make your wreaths?”

A list was compiled full of names—neighbors, many friends, kids’ teachers, and our parish priest. Mom baked and baked until the number of wreaths reached our needed count. That Christmas, Mom, Dad, and I (and sometimes my boys, depending on which parent they were staying with) delivered every wreath with love.

We savored our time with each other as the sweet smell of baking filled my home. We equally enjoyed our deliveries and the time shared with the wonderful people in my life. It was a powerful reminder that my life was very much full. Slowly, the feeling of emptiness began to fade.

Years later, in a different season of life, the wreath found me again.

While reminiscing about my mom’s amazing wreaths with friends, it dawned on me that I had never actually made one myself. I decided this would be my inaugural year as a wreath baker. Being the cook in the family—but not the baker—this was my first attempt at her savory treasure.

Over the course of two baking sessions, I made a dozen wreaths. Some doubled in size during the dough-rising process. Some didn’t rise enough. I was grateful for additional training sessions while visiting my parents, watching Mom much more closely than in years past. Although my wreaths have not yet reached Mom’s level of artistry, I loved delivering the baked-with-love gifts to friends.

Nearly fifty years after that first wreath came out of Mom’s oven, I now understand what she was really making all those years. Not just a tasty holiday dessert. Not just beloved family tradition. But a way of giving—something made by hand, sometimes imperfectly, always offered freely and from the heart.

Happiness, it turns out, really is homemade.