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is the universal answer to our difficulties.
    If we are fortunate, we realize the power of love—that spark of the divine inherent in each of us—to smooth and soothe, to heal and restore. We search for it in our relationships; we invite it into our lives. We admire it in others; we cultivate it in ourselves.
    We grasp for it with both hands and, if we are smart, we give it away with both, understanding that love, like music, is a melody that lingers in the heart long after the words have been sung. It is the grace that allows us to feel for each other, to put ourselves in our neighbors’ places. We see with their eyes, hear with their ears and feel with their hearts. Better yet, we learn to view others through God’s eyes.
    Giorgio moved his seven cats and his worn library to the home of his new family. Undoubtedly, he also packed enough warmth and memories to flourish wherever he settled, valued by this new family that love alone created.
    The lesson we might all share from this Italian love story? L’amore é come il pane. Bisogna che si faccia di nuovo ogni giorno. “Love is like bread. It needs to be made fresh every day.”
    And what better time than this Christmas season to share your loaf, to reach out in love and adopt others into the embrace of your family’s circle?

Sweets for the Sweet
    Every year, between Thanksgiving and December 26, something mystical happens to me. The festive foods of Thanksgiving dinner start the process. Then Christmas music, piped from radio and DIRECTTV for an entire month, trips my alarm to shrill. Recipe ideas, over a half-century of them, cork to the surface like soda fizz.
    Each chorus of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” and “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” transports me deeper and deeper into a rhapsodic trance that has my husband, Lee, shaking his head, mumbling and slanting me knowing looks.
    â€œWhat?” I snap, stirring candy.
    â€œYou’re doing it again.” He saunters past, sniffing the chocolate mixture.
    â€œWhy do you want to spoil Christmas for me?” I glare at his back. He just doesn’t get it.
    â€œI hate to see you work yourself to death,” he says, munching spoils from my fudge heap.
    â€œHey, I love working myself to death.”
    At the same time, something deep inside concedes that I do actually go a little mad. I can’t rest until I whip up thirty pounds of walnut fudge, fifteen pounds of Mounds candy, five gallons of Rice Krispies/Snickers balls (so the grandkids can, once a year, eat to their hearts’ content), ten dozen peanut-butter balls, twenty pounds of butterscotch fudge, and—although I swear each year I’ll not do them again—I cannot resist making several batches of yummy chocolate-toffee bars.
    â€œBut why so much ?” Lee snatches a couple of toffee bars and crams his mouth full. I roll my eyes at his duplicity.
    â€œTradition,” I say.
    And, dear Lord, on one level, it is. But, I ask myself, does tradition alone justify my annual cooking frenzy? I’ve done it since I was a teen practicing home ec class recipes. During ensuing years, I involved the children in the fun, building happy memories, packaging gifts of food for friends and family.
    Now, with the kids raised, the activity has become, at times, tiresome. Yet the urge persists. Mystified, I wonder, What is the core of this crazy compulsion?
    Later, I browse through some old family photos.
    â€œLook, here’s my Two-Mama,” I tell Lee. “Remember how, after we married, we used to visit during Christmas? As far back as I can remember, she always had goodies of every description to feed us. I loved the way she would always . . .”
    Tears spring to my eyes. I miss her. She and PaPa have been gone for many years. I remind Lee how my grandparents’ fragrant house welcomed and cheered me during childhood holidays, how their table sprouted delectable treats