Advent, they say, is the quietest time of the year. But at our home, it was by no means the quietest time. During those weeks, my mother walked around with flushed cheeks, as if charged with gunpowder, and the air in the kitchen was practically thick with the tension of impending slaps. Yet, my mother smelled indescribably good; after all, Advent is the time of delightful scents. It wafts with the fragrance of wax candles, singed twigs, incense, and roasted apples. I have nothing against lavender and rose water, but vanilla smells really good, actually much better, or cinnamon or almonds. Then came the torturous hours of mixing dough. Four Our Fathers for the fat, three for the eggs, a whole rosary for sugar and flour. My mother had a habit of measuring everything in her cooking by Our Fathers, but they had to be prayed loudly and carefully so that I wouldn't find an opportunity to dip my finger into the delicious dough.