It’s been more than 30 years, but I can still picture Becky Head’s house at Christmas. Particularly the cookies.

Becky’s mom was from Texas — a magical place from which emerged larger-than-life characters with hair that didn’t move and voices far more interesting than those touched with just a faint Phoenix twang. At Christmas, Mrs. Head did it up right. It was probably just three or four, but to a kid, it seemed she made dozens of different kinds of cookies — including an other-worldly confection called Divinity, what a name! — and the house just exploded with Christmas in all the right ways.

Down the street at my house, some limp blue and white stockings were hung — sometimes — by the fireplace. And every year, I had to remind my mother that there was no way Trident sugarfree gum was Santa’s idea of a good time.

I loved the cookies at Becky’s house, but more than the cookies I loved the idea of them — I loved that each year, like clockwork, all the same beautiful, over-the-top decorations appeared again, and that the cookies were always the same.

Hence, I suppose, the star cookies. A friend in the newsroom where I was working gave me the recipe in 1991, or maybe ’92. I was home from New York, itching to leave Phoenix again, never guessing I never would. But even then, I was creating my own traditions without really realizing it. I started making sugar cookies at Christmastime. My friend was able to decorate a plate to rival any Martha layout; I quickly realized I was better off with stars (and not Star of David, God forbid — they just don’t look as festive and YES, I’m a self-loathing Jew in case you hadn’t already figured that out).

So I made stars. A lot of stars. And every year since. I still have the same Xeroxed recipe that I pull out every time; it’s getting a little crusty. This year I made 12 batches of dough, which was a little ambitious; we may or may not get through the last batch today in an attempt at stained glass cookies.

Becky goes by Rebecca these days, and she lives in San Francisco, where she writes a lovely food blog. I’m still struggling to create tradition.

Tomorrow I’ll  host my first Christmas dinner. Every year since I met Ray (just after the star thing started), we’ve had Christmas at his parents’ home — even last year, after his mother died. It’s what I always craved — a big tree, vintage stockings from Ray’s childhood, and traditional dishes. I even agreed to play games. But this year a big box of ornaments showed up on our porch in October. Ray’s father is done. He doesn’t want to have Christmas at his house anymore. I understand.

It makes me sad (and I can only imagine how the rest of the family feels) so tomorrow I’ll do my best to recreate some of my mother in law’s traditions. I already stayed up late last night making her Irish soda bread — cursing Safeway when it didn’t have buttermilk, and myself when I couldn’t get the dough right, then burned the raisins on top. I’ll roast my first turkey breast and for the third year, Ray will make his mom’s sausage stuffing.

I’m not sure I’ll poke an angel food cake with skewers and pour red Jello over it — some traditions just should not endure.

But I’ve got a batch of stars ready to ice.