It seems like my mom is always making cookies when we talk on the phone. Over a thousand miles away, I imagine the buttery first bite of her thumbprint cookies, with their signature chocolate center hugged by perfectly squishy dough.

This past Christmas season, when she told me about all the types of cookies she was making, I felt a panic race to my chest. It hit me that my daughter was 10 years old, and my son was 12, and I had failed at carrying on the tradition of introducing them to Italian cookies. The treats represent family memories and our heritage, and remind me of my mom — with her sleeves rolled up, smiling at me while we waited in front of the oven when I was a little kid; it seemed so long ago.