Cooking for Christmas: Multitasking as a Mindful Practice
Christmas cooking has a funny way of turning a normal day into a small, glowing universe. The moment I pull out the mixing bowls, the wooden spoon, the flour that always seems to drift into the air like soft snow, something shifts in me. The house becomes warmer before the oven even preheats. The day becomes slower—even when it’s busy. And the simplest tasks start to feel like a quiet kind of ceremony.
I used to think mindfulness had to look a certain way: silence, stillness, maybe a candle, maybe a meditation app. But Christmas cooking taught me something different. Mindfulness can be loud. It can be messy. It can be a dozen timers going off at once. It can be multitasking—if you’re doing it with presence.
The holiday kitchen as a sanctuary
There’s a particular soundscape to cooking at Christmas. The soft thud of a knife on a cutting board. The hiss of butter meeting a hot pan. The rhythmic scrape of a spoon against a pot. The steady whirl of a mixer. Even the crinkle of parchment paper has its own kind of music.
When I’m in the middle of it—chopping, stirring, tasting, adjusting—I notice how my mind naturally narrows to what’s right in front of me. Not because I’m forcing it to, but because the kitchen invites that kind of attention. It’s hard to drift too far away when you’re watching sugar turn from grainy to glossy, or when you’re waiting for the exact moment something becomes golden instead of burnt.
And that’s where the sanctuary is.
Not in perfection. Not in a spotless countertop. But in the simple act of being here, with my hands busy and my senses awake.
Multitasking that doesn’t scatter you
Let’s be honest: Christmas cooking is multitasking by nature. There’s always something simmering while something else is baking. You’re prepping tomorrow’s dish while cleaning up today’s mess. You’re checking a recipe while answering a text and trying to remember if you already added salt.
Multitasking can be stressful when it pulls you in ten directions at once. But there’s another kind—the kind that feels like weaving. Like you’re holding multiple threads, and instead of tangling, they start to form something beautiful.
For me, mindful multitasking is about anchoring.
I anchor in my breath while I wait for water to boil. I anchor in the sensation of my feet on the floor while I stir. I anchor in the scent of cinnamon and citrus and roasting garlic. I anchor in the sound of the spoon, the timer, the oven door closing.
The tasks don’t disappear. The chaos doesn’t magically become calm. But I stop fighting the moment and start moving with it.
Getting lost in the blissful sounds
There’s a point in the day—usually after the first dish is underway—when I start to feel that familiar shift into flow. It’s like my nervous system finally believes me when I say, “We’re safe. We’re creating. We’re allowed to enjoy this.”
The sounds help.
The steady bubble of a sauce is almost like a mantra. The chopping becomes a rhythm. The clink of measuring spoons becomes punctuation. Even the little interruptions—someone asking a question, the dog wandering in, the timer insisting I pay attention—feel like part of the composition.
I get lost in it the way I get lost in any kind of creating.
Because cooking is creating.
It’s taking raw ingredients and turning them into comfort. It’s transforming. It’s offering. It’s storytelling, but with scent and texture and warmth.
And when I’m truly present, the kitchen doesn’t feel like a place where I’m “getting things done.” It feels like a place where I’m practicing being alive.
The quiet emotions that show up
Holiday cooking also has a way of stirring up more than food.
Sometimes it brings nostalgia—memories of kitchens I grew up in, or people I miss, or traditions that changed over time. Sometimes it brings grief, because the holidays can highlight what isn’t here as much as what is. Sometimes it brings joy so simple it almost surprises me.
Mindfulness doesn’t mean we only feel the good stuff.
It means we let ourselves feel what’s real.
So if I notice a lump in my throat while I’m rolling dough, I don’t rush past it. I breathe. I keep moving. I let the feeling exist without making it a problem. I remind myself that being human is part of the season too.
Finding your “why” in the middle of the noise
This time of year is full of pressure. Do more. Spend more. Show up more. Be more cheerful. Make it magical.
But the truth is, “magical” isn’t a performance.
It’s a presence.
And presence gets easier when you remember your why.
Why are you cooking?
Maybe you’re cooking because feeding people is your love language. Maybe you’re cooking because it connects you to your grandmother, or your culture, or a version of yourself that feels grounded. Maybe you’re cooking because it’s the one day you give yourself permission to create without rushing. Maybe you’re cooking because you want your home to smell like safety.
Your why doesn’t have to be poetic.
It just has to be true.
And it doesn’t have to be about cooking, either.
Your why might be about gathering. About rest. About healing. About starting over. About keeping a tradition alive. About letting yourself feel joy without earning it.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed this season, I’ll gently offer this: before you add one more thing to your list, pause and ask yourself what you’re really trying to honor.
Because when you know what you’re honoring, it becomes easier to let the rest fall away.
A small practice you can try today
If you’re in the kitchen this week—whether you’re making a full Christmas dinner or just stirring cocoa on the stove—try this:
Pick one sound to listen for.
Let it be the thing that brings you back when your mind wanders.
When you notice you’ve drifted into stress or rushing, return to that sound.
Maybe it’s the simmer. Maybe it’s the chop. Maybe it’s the kettle. Maybe it’s the quiet hum of the fridge.
It sounds almost too simple, but that’s the point.
Mindfulness isn’t always a grand practice.
Sometimes it’s just choosing to be here for the ordinary music of your life.
The real gift
At the end of the day, the food will get eaten. The dishes will get washed. The leftovers will get packed away. The decorations will come down.
But what stays—what really stays—is the way you moved through it.
Did you rush through the moments you’ll wish you could relive?
Did you treat yourself like a machine, or like a person?
Did you remember why you were doing any of it?
For me, Christmas cooking is a reminder that I can be busy and still be mindful. I can be creating and still be calm. I can be multitasking and still be present.
And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us this season.
Not to do it all.
But to do what matters—on purpose.
To find our why.
To listen for the blissful sounds.
And to let the kitchen, or the crafting table, or the quiet corner of the day become a place where we come back to ourselves.