We have a tradition in our house, called Candletime (I didn't name it). The day after Thanksgiving, we bust out candles (and we have enough now that my husband cannot seem to resist making jokes about sacrificing live chickens), turn out all the lights, and have dinner by candlelight. We do this almost every night until... sometime after Christmas or so. There isn't a set end date, really.
The story of how it started isn't all that interesting: I was seven months pregnant, with morning sickness and bronchitis, and my boy was a toddler (which is to say: crazy, full of energy, and prone to huge meltdowns after 5pm). Desperate to get him to bedtime calmly I tried, one night, turning out all the lights and lighting candles. It did the trick, so I repeated it. And the next year, with a baby and a toddler around (and another holiday case of bronchitis), I dimly remembered something about candles, so I gave it another go, and once again, it worked like a charm. By the next year, my boy remembered and was asking for it. It was a feckless, unplanned start to something that's turned into a lovely way to spend time together. Sure, Candletime is a little hokey, and sometimes I feel like a dork for Having Started A Tradition, but mostly, it's just really, really tranquil.
Last night, just to see if my husband would say anything about what was sacrificed to the Candletime altar: I cooked chicken.