Despite being something of a nervous traveler — one of those people who needs to have eyes on their gate at least two hours before departure — I increasingly find myself savoring the strange choreography of holiday air travel. There’s a ritual to it: informing the check-in agent, with unnecessary solemnity, that I am not transporting aerosol containers, flame starters or fireworks; reaching into my pocket countless times in the security line to ensure that my boarding pass and ID haven’t somehow dissolved into another dimension; the TSA guards barking orders about shoes, jackets and liquids in tones that oscillate between weary and militaristic.
Travelers corral small dogs in small bags, babies in oversized strollers and, inevitably, someone realizes they’ve forgotten their passport. At 8 a.m., someone else is ordering a tall draft beer at Chili’s in Terminal B.
This spectacle, so often gray and transactional the rest of the year, becomes tinged with a certain charm when set against the twinkling garlands and strings of white lights at O’Hare. Yet my favorite part of this seasonal migration isn’t the festive decor or the peculiar theater of the security line. It’s watching what people have tucked into their carry-ons: the foods that reveal where they’ve been or where they’re going.
On the conveyor belt alongside laptops and shoes, I’ve seen Giordano’s deep-dish pizzas, Wawa hoagies and glass containers of rare Italian cherries, precariously arguing their way past the 3.4-ounce liquid rule. (One man, desperate to save his jar, popped the lid right there at security, dipped in a finger, and exclaimed, “See? It’s not even that much liquid!”) On my first flight post-pandemic, two passengers boarded with sourdough starters, as carefully cradled as infants. Food, it seems, is as much a part of the holiday season as the destinations themselves.
For me, the tradition is candy. Each December, my mom transforms the kitchen into a whirlwind of holiday baking, crafting treats that appear only in this fleeting season. The highlights: chocolate-covered peanut butter balls, their glossy shells encasing a sweet-salty filling she’s perfected over decades, and my favorite, cranberry date bars — tangy, crumbly squares adapted from my dad’s mother’s recipe, a relic of holiday kitchens past. I carry these treasures home each year in a frozen plastic tub tucked in my carry-on, feeling their weight as more than confection. They are threads of connection to my mom and the women before her, reminders that food can say what words sometimes can’t: I love you.
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The sight of these homemade sweets nestled among my travel essentials — right next to my laptop and noise-canceling headphones — has become as much a part of the holidays as the taste of the candy itself. It’s not just the act of bringing the food back that feels special, though. It’s the quiet, unspectacular intimacy of its presence. Late at night, after a long travel day, I’ll open the tub, eat a sliver or a cranberry date bar, and feel momentarily, impossibly, back in my mom’s kitchen.
I’m not alone in this. Look around any holiday airport, and you’ll see it: travelers transporting a kaleidoscope of edible treasures, carrying with them the flavors of home. There’s something deeply human about it—this need to bring back a piece of wherever we’ve been, to share a slice of our world with others. Food is a connection, a bridge between here and there.
Sometimes I wonder about the stories behind the other foods I see. The deep-dish pizza: Is it a gift for someone who’s never tasted Chicago’s indulgent, polarizing culinary export? The jar of cherries: A thoughtful souvenir, or simply a splurge for a home bartender in need of cocktail garnishes? The sourdough starter: A quirky holiday experiment, or an heirloom culture, handed down like a family secret?
And then there are the foods I don’t see, packed tightly in checked luggage, surviving the cargo hold with quiet resilience. Frozen tamales wrapped in foil. Jars of homemade Sunday sauce sealed tight. A whole smoked ham, or an entire roast duck. I like to imagine that all of this food is a kind of invisible thread, connecting families and friends, stretching across cities and states. It’s a reminder that even in this age of convenience and two-day shipping, there’s still something special about carrying something home yourself — something made with care, meant to be shared.
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