The holiday season is in full swing and it’s enough to make me positively Scrooge-ish. I actually love Christmas itself, it’s the shopping that makes me grumpy. The crowds, the malls, the traffic and the expense are enough to send me into an anticonsumer tizzy.

I feel a real kinship with activists worldwide who will observe Buy Nothing Day on Friday, Nov. 23. But as much of a green wannabe as I am — I can’t go there. Buying Less is much more appealing.

For my family, homemade gifts are a huge part of Buying Less. Instead of consuming, we focus on creating and giving. The whole family picks berries in the summer so my daughters can present their teachers with jars of preserves, proudly saying "I helped make this." My husband channels his inner disc jockey and burns CDs of holiday tunes. The girls and I whip up dozens of Peanut-butter Chews, Double-Chocolate Brownie Bites and Snickerdoodles.

However, there are two rules for making successful gifts. Give yourself enough time to work up something fabulous and always do something you’re good at.

Last year I made my five-year-old and her best friend matching ballerina tutus. My daughter was gratifyingly enthusiastic, but her friend was less so. Her visible disappointment was only lightened when her quick-thinking father snatched the tutu and placed it jauntily on his head. As everyone dissolved into laughter, I vowed to stick with my stove.

I have a tremendous amount of sympathy for that little girl. More than 25 years ago I received the best homemade gift ever and it remains one of my prized possessions. But when I first unwrapped it, gratitude and admiration weren’t the first emotions to come to mind. Because really, when you’re a teenager, the last thing you want is a rolling pin.

My grandfather, recently retired, had acquired a lathe for his woodshop.

When my grandparents were first married, he had built many of their furnishings. With time on his hands he returned to the wood, happily coaxing fallen trees into useful objects. Among the many things he made were rolling pins — lots of rolling pins. Enough rolling pins so that at Christmas every female in the extended family received one — even those who didn’t cook.

I threw the thing in a box with the rest of my meager housewares and got on with my life. Following job after job, I wandered around the country, eventually winding up with a husband, house and kids. Gradually, almost unconsciously, I also started recreating the traditions of my childhood. Most of these revolve around food — my grandmother’s Christmas cookies, my mother’s pies.

Now, every time I hold the rolling pin I admire its beauty and functionality. Veins of dark blue stripe through the heart of the wood, taken from a black locust tree on my grandparents’ farm. Its comforting heft is light enough to maneuver a pie crust into a perfect circle, but heavy enough to muscle springy yeast dough into cinnamon rolls. Each time I take it out of its drawer, I rub my floury fingers over its surface, and imagine the hours it took my grandfather to sand it smooth.

This simple object, costing nothing but time, is an expression of my grandfather’s talent and his love. Is there any better gift?