Once Jamie appears and begins slicing the intensely salty ham, I bake a batch of biscuits that I've made using White Lily flour from Tennessee, which my family prefers for cookies and quick breads. A final dab of butter is swirled into the grits, Dave sets out the scrambled eggs, and then the plates are piled high.

Kate and Jameson lead the charge to open the gifts. Coffee mugs in hand, the rest of us follow them to the Douglas fir in the library, where I've placed a bunch of red velvet stockings stuffed with candy canes, chocolate Santas, and a tangerine. I pop my new Blind Boys of Alabama CD into the stereo, and the wrapping paper starts to fly. Diva is thrilled by her present—a roasted marrowbone, already clamped in her muzzle.

A brisk walk down the freshly plowed road helps work off the breakfast, and shortly after returning, we four siblings head for the kitchen again to start on dinner. Kaki's first project is to grate fresh ginger for Aunt Fanny Lee's elegant gingerbread cake, while I make the topping—condensed milk caramelized to a golden syrup. Later, watching Kaki mix the batter, I recall the Christmas long ago when she shocked Nana with a batch of anatomically correct gingerbread men. Who knew that red hots and colored sprinkles could be put to such scandalous use? Meanwhile, Hilary trims a big pile of green beans, as Jamie, who is in charge of the standing rib roast, rapidly chops celery and carrots for a mirepoix.

Soon, we're embroiled in a typical family dispute: whether our father put Tabasco into his creamed onions or worcestershire sauce. Jamie settles the matter by adding both. Out in the dining room, Amy sets the table with heavily starched antique linens and gleaming silverware. (Southerners are obsessed with sterling. I inherited a ton from Nana and my mother, who was divvying up serving spoons on her deathbed, and have to start polishing my heirlooms by the first of December so that they'll be ready in time for the holiday.)

Bronson decides it's time to break out the bourbon-laced eggnog chilling in the fridge. Everyone grabs a vintage Santa mug filled with my paternal grandfather's creamy, potent concoction. The original recipe, more than a century old, called for six dozen eggs and served 100 people. We also snack on Kaki's chee-wees, made with pecans from my mother's hometown. Dredged in confectioners' sugar, they are as sweet as the eggnog.

We serve dinner at four o'clock. It is only days past the solstice, but this far north, the sun fades early, so Dave lights candles in tall brass holders on the sideboard. Jamie pulls the roast—aromatic with garlic and thyme—from the oven and places it on a cutting board to let it rest, while Hilary pours my brother's bordelaise sauce into a Royal Doulton gravy boat that belonged to my maternal great-grandmother. I arrange a crystal relish tray with pickles I put up last summer, and then, when no one is looking, add another dash of Tabasco to the onions bubbling on the stove. The children are told to stop watching Laurel and Hardy's Babes in Toyland and get ready for dinner. Jameson dons a smart new tie; Kate looks adorable in a red velvet top.

As is our family custom, the food is set out buffet style in the kitchen. After helping ourselves, we finally sit down and toast absent loved ones with a robust Meredith-Mitchell pinot noir from my uncle Frank Mitchell's Oregon vineyard (which he owns with his wife, Susan Meredith). Then it's time to eat. The slabs of juicy rare Hereford beef are terrific on their own but heavenly when drizzled with the intense red wine sauce. Fortunately, everyone thinks the onions have just the right amount of heat and perfectly complement the green beans tossed with toasted almond slivers. Feather-light yorkshire puddings round out the meal.

Later, as we indulge in generous slices of the gingerbread cake, Kaki hands everyone a final gift: glossy folders containing her interpretation of Nana's chee-wees recipe and an essay about channeling the spirit of our mother, who apparently wants credit for teaching us how to cook. Kaki insists that I read it aloud, and it is uncanny how close she's come to capturing Mom's voice. The two of us laugh so hard our mascara runs.

We all linger together as the Yule log burns brightly in the fireplace. Suddenly, the holiday music broadcast we've been listening to on the radio is interrupted by an announcement that another storm is on the way. Who cares? Let it snow.