Kate Emery

For my last STM breakfast and brunch review, I wanted to return to the source of one of my earliest reviews.

As a child, I learned that dinnerware carried its own quiet system of rules. There were the everyday plates: solid, dependable, and then there was the fine bone china, stored in higher cabinets, reserved for holidays, milestones, and evenings when guests filled the house with voices. Of course the fragile good china required handwashing due to the gold leaf pattern on many pieces. That was part of the ritual. You didn't rush it. You dried each plate gently, like you were both preserving history and participating in it.

A couple of weeks ago, on a crisp morning walk with my dog, an idea popped into my mind as softly as the season itself. Instead of the usual post-Thanksgiving whirlwind of hauling out bins, untangling lights, and transforming the house in a single weekend, I decided this year would be different. This year, I would let the Christmas season arrive slowly.

This year has been an exceptionally challenging one for me and for many of the people I love. In October, I lost a dear friend to cancer, a loss that settled over everything like a deep and unexpected shadow. My husband's health has been unpredictable, a relentless roller coaster of ups and downs, never quite reaching “stable.” There's a constant fear lingering beneath the surface: Will he need to go back as an inpatient at Johns Hopkins? That question alone is enough to exhaust a person.

Much of my recent writing has been concentrating on the fact that 2025 has been a difficult year for almost everyone. There is a heaviness in the air that feels impossible to escape, in the news, in our communities, and sometimes even in our own homes. I have found myself searching for small pockets of light, tiny reminders that goodness still exists, even when the world feels unsteady and unfamiliar.

From about age seven, I began my lifelong love affair with what I affectionately call my “grandma hobbies.” In our family, handwork wasn't a quaint pastime, it was the quiet pulse of our daily life, the language spoken by the women who raised me. I come from a lineage of artists, and musicians, women whose hands seemed to know instinctively how to coax beauty out of the ordinary. I was channeling Laura Ingalls Wilder in Little House on the Prairie and the March sisters in Little Women, two of my favorite books.

While sitting in the surgery waiting room at Johns Hopkins Hospital last week, I heard live piano music drifting up from the Hospital's main entrance. The tunes softened the sharp edges of my worries and carried me back to the surprise gift of piano music of earlier days; Christmas shopping at Nordstrom and lingering at happy hour in the Pentagon City Ritz Hotel bar, moments when life felt carefree and full of hope.

On December first, I started a 30-day gratitude challenge. I've always been drawn to small, intentional practices—daily rituals that anchor me, often through journaling.

Spiritually, winter is often described as a sacred pause, a time for deep inner reflection, rest, and renewal. It is the season that invites us to slow down, shed what no longer serves us, and quietly build inner strength beneath the surface. But for many of us, winter has never felt like an invitation. It has felt like an obligation.

The small towns of Moora and Gnowangerup have emerged as WA’s baby hotspots, bucking a national trend that has sent Australia’s fertility rate to a record low.