It was, you know, probably 80 degrees out in L.A., and my dad

Host: The fireplace crackled in the quiet glow of a Los Angeles evening, the kind that pretends it’s winter but never truly chills the skin. Outside, palm trees swayed lazily against a golden sunset, and the faint scent of jasmine and chimney smoke mixed in the air — California’s strange duet of summer and Christmas.

Inside, a string of colored lights blinked lazily around the mantle. A fake pine tree stood in the corner, decorated too early and too brightly. And in the middle of the living room — a bucket of artificial snow, glistening like a joke made of love.

Jack was crouched by the fireplace, tossing another log onto the flames. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned arms, not the kind you usually associate with winter.

Jeeny stood by the window, sipping hot cocoa, watching the orange light spill over the city skyline.

Host: Outside, it was 80 degrees, but inside — someone was trying to make Christmas happen.

Jeeny: (grinning) “Tori Spelling once said, ‘It was, you know, probably 80 degrees out in L.A., and my dad took me outside and there was snow. At the time, I thought, “Every kid doesn’t have snow in their backyard on Christmas?”’”

(she chuckles softly) “That quote always makes me think about how childhood can make magic out of anything — even a snow machine in the desert.”

Jack: (smiling, stirring the fire) “Yeah. Innocence is powerful like that. When you’re a kid, magic isn’t questioned — it’s assumed. Every backyard’s got snow if you believe it hard enough.”

Jeeny: “And every dad’s a magician.”

Jack: “Or a set designer.”

Host: The fire popped, sending a spark upward that glowed, then vanished — like memory itself.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. When I was a kid, my dad wasn’t exactly the snow-making type. He was more the ‘get up early, work late, and don’t expect much fanfare’ type. Our Christmases were... practical.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “No snow?”

Jack: (shaking his head) “Just frost on the windows. And sometimes not even that. But he tried. He’d hang one string of lights on the roof, never straight, always half-working. He’d burn pancakes instead of cookies. It wasn’t movie magic — but it was real.”

Jeeny: “That’s the difference, isn’t it? Some people grow up with snow machines; others grow up with effort. Both are kinds of love — just dressed differently.”

Host: The room warmed with her words. The air shimmered with the gentle hum of nostalgia — not loud, not showy, just steady.

Jack: (nodding slowly) “I think we all inherit our parents’ version of Christmas. Their idea of magic becomes our first blueprint for joy.”

Jeeny: “And then we spend adulthood unlearning it or trying to recreate it.”

Jack: “Or both.”

Host: She laughed — a sound that fit perfectly with the crackle of the fire. The kind of laugh that says, I’ve been there too.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, though — kids don’t see effort; they only see magic. And maybe that’s the point. Parents build illusions not to deceive, but to give you something to believe in before the world gets too literal.”

Jack: (smiling) “A little snow in the wrong climate. A little wonder in the wrong world.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The city lights outside began to sparkle, stretching across the hills — thousands of tiny constellations mirroring the tree inside.

Jeeny: (softly) “When I was little, my mom used to bake gingerbread men in August. She said Christmas didn’t need a date — just an excuse. She’d crank the AC, play carols, and we’d wear sweaters like lunatics.”

Jack: (grinning) “Fake snow in the oven this time?”

Jeeny: “Flour dust. Close enough.”

Jack: “I like that. Christmas in August. Snow in Los Angeles. It’s proof that love doesn’t obey geography.”

Jeeny: “Or temperature.”

Host: A comfortable silence followed — two adults sitting in the manufactured glow of a season that’s always half-real and half-memory.

Jack: (after a moment) “You know, sometimes I think people chase perfection during the holidays because they’re afraid of what’s missing. But the imperfections are what make it honest. The crooked lights, the bad gifts, the fake snow — that’s where the love hides.”

Jeeny: “Because love’s not the sparkle. It’s the attempt.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The fire softened, its flame calmer now, content in its purpose.

Jeeny set down her mug and crouched beside him, holding her hands near the warmth. The two of them sat there, side by side, their faces glowing in orange light — not just from heat, but from recognition.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that story of Tori’s dad? It’s not the snow. It’s the gesture. He knew it was ridiculous — L.A. snow — but he did it anyway, just to keep wonder alive for her.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s love measured in absurdity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The best kind.”

Host: The wind shifted outside, shaking the palm trees slightly — nature’s reminder that it was still California, still warm, still unbothered by human nostalgia.

Jack: (half-laughing) “You think that’s what growing up is? Learning to make our own versions of snow?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Childhood ends when you realize no one’s making it for you anymore. Adulthood begins when you start making it yourself.”

Jack: “So love is the snow machine.”

Jeeny: “And memory’s the backyard.”

Host: A pause — tender, weighty. Then Jack nodded, softly, as if the metaphor itself was enough prayer for the evening.

He reached for his mug, took a sip, and let the silence breathe. The fire burned low, now more ember than flame, more reflection than heat.

Jeeny: “Do you ever miss it? The kind of magic you didn’t have to build yourself?”

Jack: “Every day. But then I look at nights like this — the small warmth, the effort, the company — and I think… maybe we didn’t lose it. Maybe we just changed how we make it.”

Jeeny: “We learned how to create snow in our own way.”

Jack: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host: The camera slowly pans out, showing the two of them in the soft orange light — the fake tree glowing behind them, the window framing palm trees swaying under the moon, and a faint trace of steam rising from their cups.

Host: And as the world outside continues its warm December, Tori Spelling’s words return like a gentle melody — no longer about snow, but about the effort to make love visible:

Host: That magic is not found in weather,
but in the hands that create wonder where it shouldn’t exist.

That love is the quiet defiance
of pretending it’s winter in the middle of summer
— just to make someone smile.

Host: And that perhaps the truest snow
isn’t what falls from the sky,
but what we make —
when we decide the world still deserves
a little make-believe.

Host: The fire fades to embers,
and outside, the night hums with warmth.
Inside, though — inside,
it’s Christmas.