The Hidden Flavor of Holiday Journeys: Packing Culinary Delights

Even though I consider myself a somewhat anxious traveler — one of those individuals who feels compelled to keep an eye on the departure gate at least two hours prior — I find myself increasingly enjoying the odd choreography of holiday air travel. It has its own rituals: informing the check-in attendant, with exaggerated seriousness, that I am not carrying any aerosol products, flammable materials, or fireworks; repeatedly checking my pockets during security to make sure my boarding pass and ID haven’t mysteriously vanished; TSA agents barking instructions about shoes, jackets, and liquids in voices that fluctuate between fatigued and authoritative.

Passengers manage tiny dogs in compact bags, infants in oversized strollers, and inevitably, someone realizes they’ve left their passport behind. At 8 a.m., another person is ordering a tall draft beer at Chili’s in Terminal B.

This spectacle, typically dull and transactional during the rest of the year, gains a certain allure amidst the sparkling garlands and strings of white lights at O’Hare. However, my most cherished aspect of this seasonal journey isn’t the cheerful decorations or the unique drama of the security line. It’s observing what people have hidden in their carry-ons: the foods that signify their past or future destinations.

Alongside laptops and shoes on the conveyor belt, I’ve spotted Giordano’s deep-dish pizzas, Wawa hoagies, and glass jars of rare Italian cherries, all precariously trying to comply with the 3.4-ounce liquid limit. (One gentleman, eager to save his jar, unscrewed the lid right at security, dipped in a finger, and declared, “See? It’s hardly even liquid!”) On my first flight after the pandemic, a couple of passengers boarded carrying sourdough starters, carefully held as if they were infants. Food, it appears, is as integral to the holiday season as the destinations themselves.

For me, the tradition involves candy. Every December, my mother transforms the kitchen into a frenzy of holiday baking, creating treats that only emerge in this brief season. The highlights include chocolate-covered peanut butter balls, their shiny coatings enveloping a sweet-salty filling she’s honed over decades, and my favorite, cranberry date bars — tart, crumbly squares derived from my paternal grandmother’s recipe, a remnant of holiday kitchens from yesteryears. I transport these treasures home annually in a frozen plastic container stowed in my carry-on, perceiving their weight as more than mere confections. They are links to my mother and the women preceding her, reminders that food can convey what words often cannot: I cherish you.

The sight of these homemade delights nestled among my travel necessities — right next to my laptop and noise-canceling headphones — has become as integral to the holidays as the experience of the candy itself. Yet it’s not solely the act of bringing the food back that feels significant. It’s the quiet, unremarkable intimacy of its presence. Late at night, following a long travel day, I’ll open the container, consume a piece or a cranberry date bar, and feel momentarily, impossibly, transported back to my mother’s kitchen. 

I’m not alone in this. Look around at any holiday airport, and it’s evident: travelers carrying a vibrant array of edible treasures, bringing along the flavors of home. There’s something profoundly human about this—this desire to return with a piece of wherever we’ve traveled, to share a slice of our world with others. Food is a connection, a bridge between places.

At times I ponder the stories concealed behind the other foods I notice. The deep-dish pizza: Is it a present for someone who hasn’t experienced Chicago’s rich, divisive culinary dish? The jar of cherries: A considerate keepsake, or just a treat for a home bartender seeking cocktail garnishes? The sourdough starter: A whimsical holiday endeavor, or an heirloom culture, passed down like a familial secret?

And then there are the foods I don’t see, tightly packed in checked luggage, enduring the cargo hold with quiet endurance. Frozen tamales wrapped in foil. Jars of homemade Sunday sauce sealed securely. A complete smoked ham, or an entire roast duck. I like to envision all of this food as a type of invisible thread, connecting families and friends, spanning cities and states. It serves as a reminder that even in this era of convenience and two-day shipping, there remains something special about personally carrying something home — something crafted with care, intended to be shared.