The Week Christmas Stops Texting

By the time Christmas passes, winter in Bedford feels suddenly very still.

The roads narrow into pale ribbons between stone walls. The trees stand bare. By late afternoon, the light slips behind the hills and the house settles into itself. We find ourselves lighting candles earlier, pulling sweaters from the backs of chairs, lingering a little longer at the table because there is nowhere else we’re meant to be.

Every year we say the same thing: how is it already over?  The weeks of anticipation stretch out in front of us, and then suddenly - Christmas arrives, glows, and slips past with a bang. It can feel as though the season itself has slipped away with it. The candles burn low. The tree comes down. Life rushes back in.

This is usually the moment when people start wishing winter away. Seems like a downer, so it’s been decided that winter deserves its own rituals. Darkness can be gentle. Repetition can be comforting. Beauty matters most when days are simple and light is scarce. We aren’t a religious family, so our Christmas becomes more of a celebration of the season. What makes it wonderful is not the calendar, but the permission it gives us - to pause, to gather, and to make ordinary days feel more beautiful.

Christmas reminds us how much we value time. Time to sit longer at the table. Time to notice small details. Time to be together without rushing on to the next thing. And when December 25 passes, I feel like that feeling doesn’t have to disappear. Winter offers us a softer, quieter invitation. Winter has its own kind of beauty - one that asks us to slow down, stay close, and be intentional.

Needless to say for those who know us, but we set the table, even when it’s just family. A napkin folded neatly. A favorite cup pulled from the shelf. Candlelight - no overhead lights, no ceremony. No phones. Just a soft glow that tells everyone we are here together.

Create warmth through routines. Morning coffee is shared before the house fully wakes up. Baking with the children on weekend afternoons. A few more pieces in the puzzle we’ve been working on. A coffee at your coziest neighborhood case. These rhythms anchor the day and make winter feel held rather than long.

FRILUFTSLIV. Norwegians have a word - friluftsliv - which means open-air living. The idea is simple: go outside, no matter the weather. One of our favorite Bedford rituals begins with an antique silver cocktail shaker - the kind that feels faintly glamorous for what is essentially a very wholesome activity. We fill it with hot apple-cider toddies - steaming, spiced, fragrant. The adults’ version includes a splash of something warming; the children’s version very much does not (and they are quick to remind us which is which). The cider comes from the local farm stand, where it tastes like someone pressed an entire orchard.

Then we bundle everyone up - boots, scarves, mismatched gloves - and head out into the snowy garden for archery. The aim is…optimistic. The cheering is enthusiastic. Someone always insists they almost hit the target. We stay just long enough to feel heroic and cold, then retreat indoors with red noses, fogged-up glasses, and the deep satisfaction that comes from going outside in winter by choice.

You come home colder - but clearer. And the warmth waiting inside feels earned.

Eat simply, beautifully. In the city, I’m forever drawn to anywhere with a cozy fireplace (Clover Club, I’m looking at you). If we’re staying in, we default to chicken and dumpling soup- a deeply nostalgic dish from my Southern childhood that somehow tastes even better when it’s freezing outside.

I ladle it into hand-painted bowls we picked up in Italy, because of course I do. I’ve always loved using good plates for humble food. There’s something grounding about serving the simplest meal as if it matters—because it does.

Gather without occasion. Invite over your neighbor for a catch up. Send an invite to a neighbor just to catch up. Impromptu text a friend asking if they want to come over and figure out how to make a random cherry strudel recipe you found on the internet. (True story.) But with from scratch puff pastry and not the store bought. 

Sit close. Talk longer than planned. Laugh without a real agenda.

Christmas teaches us something important: togetherness doesn’t require a fancy reason—it just needs intention.

Gather with occasion. Not everyone wants the parties to stop just because the temperature dips. Winter deserves its own moments. This year, I was invited to join a book club, which feels like the most civilized possible excuse to sit by a fire and talk literature with friends. In January, I may finally organize a mahjong group, ideally paired with a tea tasting from Of Tea, a New York brand we recently collaborated with - because if you’re going to commit to tiles and strategy, you may as well do it properly.

Take time to reflect. The days after Christmas are a gift. Write down what surprised you this year. What you’re grateful for. What you want to carry forward. Reflection is its own form of celebration—and one that doesn’t require reservations.

These small acts say: this moment matters. Not because it’s a holiday, but because we are here - together.

What we love most about Christmas isn’t the spectacle (ok, maybe a bit of the spectacle). It’s the way it reorients us. It reminds us that beauty belongs in daily life. That family and friends are worth planning around. That a table set with care can change the feeling of an ordinary day.

When the season grows quieter, we try to keep those lessons close. Winter becomes a continuation, not an ending—a time to live a little more slowly, a little more thoughtfully, and with fewer reasons to rush.

At Deux Pigeons, we believe the spirit of Christmas isn’t something we pack away with the ornaments. It’s something we practice. In how we gather. In how we share meals. In how we choose to make the days beautiful, long after the holiday has passed.

Here’s to winter - unhurried, warm, and full of meaning.