We do holidays differently down here.

When speaking of the four seasons in the Deep South, someone once said that we have Almost Summer, Summer, Still Summer, and Christmas. From my standpoint here in South Mississippi, an area that has never seen a white Christmas in my 48 years, a region where the Christmas day forecast is usually “72 and rainy,” that’s pretty accurate.

Others refer to the Southern seasons as: Dove season, deer season, duck season, and turkey season. In the North they call it the “Holiday season,” and greet each other with, “Happy holidays.” Down here, for the most part, it’s Christmas, we say “Merry Christmas.” And don’t get too concerned about the political correctness of it all. My Jewish friends wish me “Merry Christmas” all of the time.

Christmas is a magical time below the Mason-Dixon Line. Wreaths are hung, carols are sung, cards are sent, money spent, gifts are exchanged, and schedules rearranged. Christmas is steeped in timeless traditions. Kids defiantly fight sleep on the eve of Santa’s arrival, and toys magically appear under the tree the next morning. These entrenched traditions take place year after year with little or no variation.

There are three tried and true holiday absolutes. These truths have remained unchanged through the decades: there are never enough batteries, no one eats fruitcake, and Christmas Eve dinner stays the same. Southern families have been eating the exact same foods on Christmas Eve for years. No changes, no substitutions, no variations–by the book and to the letter. These days it is all about the food. It is the one thing we can always count on. No one wants to experiment with new foodstuffs for Christmas Eve dinner.

The Christmas Eve spread is the most formal of the year. Hostesses pull out all of the stops. Often, it is the only time the wedding china, fine crystal and silver service is dusted off and put to use. Roasted turkey and cornbread dressing are the centerpieces of formal Christmas Eve spreads in the South. The dressing is always baked separately and not stuffed inside the bird. The gravy is a deep, rich, russet-colored potion, not the pale and creamy egg-flaked variety served at Thanksgiving. Sweet potatoes or a baked-tomato dish add a flash of color to the sideboard. Spinach and bean casseroles are the only green vegetables that make an appearance. Small homemade yeast rolls and petite biscuits are wrapped in fine linens and tucked inside sterling baskets flanked by relish trays or small crystal bowls of seasoned nuts.

Occasionally a family member will try to alter the traditional offerings by sneaking in a food-of-the-moment dish— a supposed cutting-edge culinary creation published in the holiday section of one of the hip and trendy cooking magazines— smoked haddock pate, rhubarb bread pudding, turkey lasagna with a macadamia-nut crust and Moroccan couscous. These dishes, imposters to the Southern table, are never as good as the ones we grew up with. Southerners go with the standbys. It’s in our blood. It’s our heritage, our tradition, the food of our grandmothers, the food of our youth, and the food of our fondest memories.

We will never be able to recreate the Christmas-morning elation we experienced when we woke up to find our first bicycle. However, we can still prepare the foods we ate in those days. And through cooking those dishes, we can, in a small way, relive that youthful feeling of yesterday’s Christmas excitement— a feeling we have been trying to recreate ever since.