I love Thanksgiving. In Canada, we don't really have a lot of

Host: The autumn night was golden and heavy, the kind of night that smelled like roasted chestnuts, laughter, and nostalgia. Streetlights shimmered through thin mist, and a faint music of silverware and soft conversation drifted from nearby apartments — a chorus of warmth behind closed windows.

In one of those windows, at a wooden table scratched by years of use, Jack and Jeeny sat beneath a string of flickering fairy lights. The table was cluttered with plates, half-empty glasses, and the scent of thyme and butter hung like a spell in the air. A record player in the corner hummed an old folk song, and on the counter behind them, a pumpkin pie waited, its crust imperfect, its smell perfect.

Host: The night wasn’t quite Thanksgiving — at least, not by calendar. But something about it felt like one: a celebration of the simple act of being fed, of being here, of being alive.

Jeeny: (grinning) “Mackenzie Davis once said, ‘I love Thanksgiving. In Canada, we don't really have a lot of history with Thanksgiving, and it's a holiday devoted to food, and that warms the cockles of my being.’”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Only someone honest could admit that food is enough reason for a holiday.”

Jeeny: “And she’s right — there’s something pure about it. No pretense, no pressure, no grand speeches about freedom or victory. Just… nourishment. For the body and the heart.”

Jack: “You make it sound spiritual.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Cooking’s the oldest prayer there is. Before people could write, they gave thanks by sharing fire and bread.”

Jack: (leaning back) “Huh. You’d make a great theologian of mashed potatoes.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “Better that than a cynic of gratitude.”

Host: The laughter was small but genuine, the kind that fills a room more than noise ever could. The lights flickered, the record hissed softly, and the world outside seemed to pause, as if giving them permission to linger in the moment.

Jack: (looking down at his plate) “You know, I’ve never really understood Thanksgiving. It always felt… borrowed. Especially here. We copy the American version — the turkey, the pie — but not the soul.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the beauty of it. It’s an adopted ritual — but it works. It’s not about where it came from; it’s about what it becomes in your hands.”

Jack: “You think meaning can be borrowed?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it can be shared.”

Jack: “So it’s not about heritage, it’s about hunger.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Exactly. Hunger — not just for food, but for connection. That’s what warms the cockles, as she said.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted, grey and tired but alive, reflecting the golden glow of the table lamp. For the first time that evening, he looked less like a man defending his cynicism and more like someone remembering how to feel grateful.

Jack: “You ever think about how fragile that is? Gratitude. You have it one second — you lose it the next.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we cook. That’s why we gather. Gratitude’s not a permanent state; it’s a ritual. You have to keep lighting the fire.”

Jack: “And when it goes out?”

Jeeny: “You start again. Even if it’s small — even if it’s just a cup of soup with someone who listens.”

Host: The wind outside pressed gently against the windows, the sound of a world trying to enter — but failing. Inside, the light was soft and forgiving, warm against the cold beyond.

Jack: “You know, I used to think holidays were an excuse — a way for people to pretend they’re happy for a day.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they are. But pretending gratitude can sometimes create gratitude. Sometimes the body remembers what the heart forgets.”

Jack: “That sounds like something a therapist would say.”

Jeeny: “Or a cook.”

Host: The record changed sides, the needle dropping with a faint click, and a new melody began — something older, softer, a song that could have belonged to anyone who’d ever loved the idea of home.

Jeeny: “You know, I like that she said she loves Thanksgiving because it’s about food. Not family, not religion — food. It’s honest. Food doesn’t judge. It doesn’t care if you’re lost, lonely, or late. It just wants to be shared.”

Jack: “You talk about food like it’s a person.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. The only one that never leaves when you need comfort.”

Jack: “You think that’s why we love to eat together? Because it’s the one time we all speak the same language?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Food is the one thing that forgives you before you ask.”

Host: The pie on the counter had cooled, its steam gone, but its aroma lingered, sweet and humble. Jack stood, walked over, and cut two slices, returning with plates like offering bowls.

He set one before Jeeny, who smiled as if it were communion.

Jack: “You know, this — right here — this feels like something worth celebrating.”

Jeeny: “What, the pie?”

Jack: “The simplicity. The fact that we’re not waiting for some reason to say thank you.”

Jeeny: “You don’t need a reason. Gratitude doesn’t have prerequisites. It’s like breath — you don’t earn it; you remember it.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe that’s what I’ve been forgetting. I keep thinking happiness is a milestone — something you reach. But maybe it’s just a table and a pie and someone to share it with.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s all it’s ever been.”

Host: For a long moment, they didn’t speak. They just ate quietly, the clink of forks, the rustle of napkins, the sound of contentment that only comes when the world outside no longer matters.

Jack: (looking out the window) “You think Canadians ever feel left out of Thanksgiving’s history?”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe a little. But maybe that’s why Mackenzie said it warms her being. Because it’s not about history — it’s about invention. She built her own tradition. You don’t need ancestry to feel grateful. Just appetite.”

Jack: “Appetite.” (smiling) “That’s one thing I still have.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re already halfway to grace.”

Host: The lights dimmed, and the room seemed to glow from within. Outside, the rain had stopped, the air clear, the moonlight pale and forgiving.

Jack: “You know, you were right. This—” (gestures to the table) “—this feels like faith, in its own way.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “Exactly. The faith that there will be another meal, another person, another night like this one.”

Host: The camera of the world would have pulled back then, revealing the small apartment, the two figures bathed in golden light, the plates between them now half-empty but sacred.

And as the music faded, the truth of Mackenzie’s words settled softly over the scene:

that gratitude doesn’t need history,
thankfulness doesn’t need grandeur,

and sometimes, the purest warmth in the universe
comes from a pie cooling on a counter,
and the quiet knowledge that you are fed, known, and not alone.