I feel like communication is the same whether you're cooking for

Host: The kitchen was a riot of color and noise — pans sizzling, garlic popping, the aroma of basil and caramelized onions rising like a hymn to the living. Music played from a small radio tucked near the spice rack — some old jazz tune that moved like laughter through the air.

Jack stood at the stove, stirring a pot with more focus than finesse, while Jeeny leaned against the counter, glass of wine in hand, her eyes warm but amused, watching him wrestle with a ladle and his own impatience.

The clock ticked softly, but the kitchen was alive — messy, human, cinematic in the quiet way of ordinary miracles.

Jeeny: “You know what Tituss Burgess said once? ‘I feel like communication is the same whether you're cooking for someone or singing or writing a song or writing a play or ordering from McDonald's.’”

Host: Her voice blended with the sounds of the room — the crackle, the simmer, the rhythm of motion. It wasn’t a quote; it was a melody spoken aloud.

Jack: “You’re saying this disaster I’m cooking is actually an act of communication?”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. Every gesture that reaches another person is communication. The problem is, you think you have to be perfect to be understood.”

Host: Jack tasted the sauce, grimaced, then reached for salt with the intensity of a man rewriting history.

Jack: “If this is communication, I’m about to tell you I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Jeeny: “That’s still honesty, Jack. Most people spend years trying to say that.”

Host: The steam from the pot rose, fogging the glass windows, turning the city lights beyond into soft watercolors. For a moment, the room felt suspended — like the world outside had pressed pause, leaving only two people and the small music of togetherness.

Jack: “I always thought communication was about precision — the right word, the right note, the right move. You’re telling me it’s about… chaos?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about presence. When you cook for someone, you’re saying, ‘I’m here, I care.’ When you sing, you’re saying the same thing — just louder.”

Jack: “And when you order from McDonald’s?”

Jeeny: laughs “Then you’re saying, ‘I trust you not to ruin this for me.’”

Host: Their laughter filled the kitchen, bouncing off walls and plates and the low hum of the refrigerator. It wasn’t loud, but it was warm — the kind of laughter that feels like an act of repair.

Jack: “You know, Burgess has a point. Every form of art is just another way of trying to be heard. Even this —” he gestures toward the stove “— is just a conversation without words.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Cooking, singing, writing — they’re all about offering something. The language changes, but the intention doesn’t.”

Jack: “You mean it’s all the same message?”

Jeeny: “Always: ‘Do you see me?’ and ‘I see you.’”

Host: The sauce began to boil over, spitting on the stove. Jack swore, reaching for a towel, and Jeeny rushed in to help, their hands brushing, their laughter colliding again. The chaos turned into a kind of choreography, the ordinary kind that happens only when two people stop performing and start existing.

Jack: “You know, I think you’re right. When you cook, it’s not about the recipe — it’s about attention. The same way a song isn’t about the notes; it’s about the emotion behind them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can burn dinner, miss a note, forget your lines — and still communicate perfectly if it’s sincere.”

Host: She poured another glass of wine, the red liquid catching the light like a small flame.

Jeeny: “Maybe communication’s just the art of being misunderstood gracefully.”

Jack: “Or the courage to risk being misunderstood at all.”

Host: Outside, a car passed, its headlights washing briefly through the window. The kitchen glowed gold and red, alive with their shared rhythm.

Jack: “You think that’s why people chase art — because they can’t stand the silence between what they feel and what they can say?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every artist is just a person who couldn’t find the right words — so they found another language.”

Host: Jack tasted the sauce again, and this time, his eyes softened.

Jack: “Not bad.”

Jeeny: smiling “Translation: ‘You care.’”

Jack: “You’re really turning this into a sermon about love, aren’t you?”

Jeeny: “Always. Love is the only language we all understand — cooking, singing, writing, it’s all just dialects of that.”

Host: The music on the radio shifted to something slower — a jazz ballad that seemed to hum with the pulse of everything alive and unfinished. Jack served the pasta onto two mismatched plates. The steam rose between them like a quiet offering.

Jeeny: “You see, Tituss was right — communication isn’t about the medium. It’s about intention. You can speak through food, through sound, through silence. The trick is meaning what you offer.”

Jack: “So this meal is my song.”

Jeeny: “And I’m your audience.”

Host: They sat, forks clinking softly, the sound delicate as rain. The world outside was still awake — cars, sirens, city noise — but inside the kitchen, time had slowed to something tender.

Jack: after a pause “You know what’s strange? I’ve said more to you tonight through this food than I’ve said in a month of words.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the soul doesn’t speak English, Jack.”

Jack: “What does it speak then?”

Jeeny: “Taste. Touch. Tone. The quiet things that can’t lie.”

Host: She took a bite, and the faintest smile crossed her lips — not at the flavor, but at the message. Jack watched her, then looked away, pretending to care about the wine, though he already knew she’d understood him perfectly.

Outside, the first drops of rain fell, soft, steady, forgiving. The kitchen’s light spilled out the window, casting warmth into the street — a single, golden frame in the city’s long, flickering reel.

Host: And perhaps that was what Tituss Burgess meant:
That communication isn’t an art of perfection, but of presence —
whether through song or supper, laughter or language,
the goal is always the same:

to say, in whatever way the world allows,
“I’m here. You matter. We’re alive, together.”