Why Bacon Belongs on the Christmas Tree

There are certain smells that don’t just enter a room — they enter your memory.

You don’t think about them. You don’t analyze them. They simply arrive, and suddenly you’re somewhere else.

For me, one of those smells is bacon.

Long before it ever hits a plate, bacon announces itself. It fills the house. It drifts down hallways. It pulls people out of bed without anyone needing to say a word. You don’t need an invitation when bacon is cooking — you just show up.

And that, I think, is where the Christmas bacon story really begins.

In our family, Christmas Eve morning was never quiet. It wasn’t a slow, sleepy lead-in to the holiday. It was a full-on gathering — grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins — all converging around a big Southern breakfast. Eggs. Sausage gravy. Country ham. Biscuits. Grits. And yes… pork brains and eggs, which I never touched but which my grandfather absolutely loved.

That breakfast was loud. It was crowded. It was imperfect. And it was entirely communal.

You didn’t make a single plate in that kitchen — you made food for an army. Bacon wasn’t cooked delicately. It was cooked in volume. In batches. It was meant to be shared, passed, grabbed, maybe stolen off a platter when someone wasn’t looking.

And that’s one of the reasons bacon makes so much sense as a symbol of Christmas.

Christmas is communal by nature. It pulls people together the same way that smell pulls people toward the kitchen. You don’t experience it alone very well. It’s meant to be shared — stories retold, jokes recycled, memories layered on top of one another year after year.

That’s how the Christmas bacon ornament found its place in our home.

It started innocently enough — my mother buying ribbon-candy ornaments that reminded her of treats from her childhood. But when my wife and I saw them hanging on the tree, we didn’t see candy. We saw bacon. And once you see bacon, you can’t unsee it.

What began as a joke didn’t stay a joke. It became a story we repeated. Then a story we expected. Then something that felt missing if it wasn’t acknowledged. And eventually, when we found an actual glitter-covered bacon ornament — thick-cut, unapologetically realistic — it felt less like a gag and more like destiny.

Now, the Christmas bacon goes on the tree last. Every year. Front and center.

And that timing matters.

Because bacon is rarely an everyday food. It’s not routine. It’s a treat. It shows up on weekends. On special mornings. On holidays. It signals that this moment is different from the rest.

Christmas does the same thing.

It interrupts the ordinary rhythm of life. It says, “Pause here.” Sit longer. Eat more slowly. Stay at the table. Let the morning stretch out. Bacon doesn’t rush — and neither should Christmas.

But what really gives the Christmas bacon its power isn’t what it is. It’s what it carries.

Ribbon candy becomes bacon. A joke becomes tradition. A tradition becomes ritual. And a ritual becomes memory.

That’s how families work.

Christmas traditions aren’t handed down fully formed. They evolve. They accrete meaning. They absorb laughter, grief, change, and time. The things we hang on trees or place on tables aren’t sacred because of their form — they’re sacred because of the stories attached to them.

The Christmas bacon carries my mother’s childhood memories of ribbon candy. It carries my grandfather at the breakfast table, happily eating something I couldn’t bring myself to try. It carries the noise of family gathered too close together in a kitchen that wasn’t built for that many people — and yet always managed.

And now it carries something new.

It carries the reminder that Christmas doesn’t have to be overly serious to be meaningful. That whimsy has a place. That laughter belongs right alongside memory. That tradition isn’t fragile — it’s resilient, adaptable, and sometimes a little ridiculous.

Every year, when that bacon ornament goes up, it’s a quiet signal. The house is ready. The season has arrived. Come gather. Come share. Come remember.

Because like bacon, the best parts of Christmas aren’t about perfection. They’re about warmth. About presence. About being drawn together without needing an explanation.

And maybe that’s the real gift of the Christmas bacon.

It reminds us that the holidays aren’t built from grand gestures. They’re built from smells that linger, tables that fill, stories that repeat, and small traditions that grow bigger than we ever expected.

And if you’re lucky, they come with a little glitter.