Hello, 2025! The dawn of a new year always brings a certain sense of recalibration — a moment to catch your breath, shake off the old dust, and reorient yourself to what matters. This winter, that clarity came not through resolutions or vision boards, but through silent basketballs, layered lasagna, and the warmth of shared slippers.
Our break unfolded in two parts — New York and California — with a little bit of everything: family, food, love, and reflection.
Because the boys were spending Christmas week with their dad this year, we held our own mini celebration the night before they left. The pizza of choice? Pineapple and green pepper (a controversial combo, but hey, they’re loyal to their favorites). Their biggest hits under the tree weren’t flashy tech or big-ticket toys, but a graphic memoir by Ruth Chan and a “silent basketball” that has become the soundtrack (or lack thereof) of our apartment ever since.
While the boys were away, Freddie and I had a few precious days to ourselves in the city. We scored a reservation at I Sodi — a charming Italian spot that I would, without hesitation, name the best in New York. Yes, I’m willing to go on record with that claim. Their twenty-layer lasagna? A masterpiece. Paired with one of their signature Negronis, it’s a kind of bliss that lingers well into the afternoon.
Freddie, in case you haven’t met him yet, is my boyfriend — a high school history teacher, father of two boys, and a man who makes cheesy eggs like it’s an art form. He loves The Sopranos, Sunday strolls, and bookstores with couches (non-negotiable). I’ve mentioned him a bit here and there, but now feels like a good time to say: I’m wildly grateful for him.
One especially cozy evening, we were invited to dinner at Jenny Rosenstrach’s apartment. There was something poetic about ending the year the same way we’d begun our city stay — with more lasagna. This one came from Smitten Kitchen’s recipe vault and was richer, earthier, less tomato-forward. For dessert, we brought a pandoro — a milky Italian cake dusted with powdered sugar that looked like it belonged in a snow globe.
Soon after, Freddie went to spend time with his kids, and I was briefly on my own. I expected a flicker of loneliness on Christmas Eve — the kind that creeps in around the edges when you’re not surrounded by your people. But instead, something softer happened: friends drew me in. I joined their gatherings, felt wrapped in their kindness. I found myself in a church service that spilled carols out into the candlelit garden, and I carried that peace with me.
Then, at last, the boys and I reunited in San Francisco for the second half of break, where we visited my sister, our niece, my dad, and a whole constellation of family. Meeting them at the airport felt cinematic — like a Diana-on-the-dock moment, minus the royal baggage. I couldn’t stop hugging them.
While in the Bay Area, we packed in all the kinds of experiences that stitch a family closer together: A Warriors game with the cousins (a heartbreaking loss, but thrilling nonetheless), a visit to the SF MoMA’s sports exhibit (four-way ping-pong, anyone?), and time to simply be — playing games, making toasts, sharing memories.
New Year’s Eve brought with it one of our favorite rituals: a visit to the grave of my sister’s late husband, Paul. There’s something deeply grounding about honoring the past as you prepare for a new chapter. The kids ran through the cemetery grass while the adults lingered, sipped champagne, and quietly reflected.
Later that night, I noticed a printout on my sister’s fridge — a quote by C.S. Lewis. It read like a small nudge from the universe, a reminder that love, while wonderful, can also be terrifying in its vulnerability. And as I find myself falling again, I feel both the thrill and fragility of it. How do we do it, really? Hand over our hearts with so much hope?
After dinner, we played Herd Mentality — a raucous, laughter-filled game that somehow revealed that Toby is now taller than nearly all his grandparents. Only Opa stands taller, for now. The comparison took me by surprise; not long ago, they were boys who couldn’t reach the sink. Now? They’re inching toward young men — still sweet, still silly, but taller and wiser than I sometimes remember.
As we headed back home, I watched Anton attempt my “fold your socks into a ball” trick at the airport. “Not gonna lie,” he said, clearly impressed with himself. “That’s pretty tuff.” And it was. It is. All of it. The little joys, the big changes, the holidays that feel different than the ones before.
So here’s to 2025: to pizza nights and new love, to friends who open their doors, and to kids who teach us as much as we teach them. I hope your new year started with something beautiful — whether it was a moment of laughter, a quiet walk, or the perfect bite of lasagna.
