'Make your plate look like a Christmas tree,' I tell people

Host: The morning light spilled across the kitchen like liquid gold, sliding over the steam of fresh coffee and the faint scent of roasted vegetables. Outside, the city still yawned awake—bicycles clattered past, birds picked at crumbs along the sidewalk, and somewhere down the street, a radio played an old soul tune about love and change.

Jack stood by the stove, sleeves rolled up, a skillet in hand, his expression that of a man who’d rather be anywhere else than dealing with sautéed kale. Across from him, Jeeny arranged a bowl of spinach, cherry tomatoes, and roasted beets, her movements slow, graceful, deliberate—like a ritual.

The table between them was simple: wood scarred by years of breakfasts and arguments. The quote she’d read earlier still hung in the air, light but potent, like steam from her tea.

“Make your plate look like a Christmas tree,” I tell people, “mostly green with splashes of other bright colors.” — Victoria Moran

Jack: “So now food needs to be festive to be meaningful?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about decoration, Jack. It’s about life. A plate full of color means it’s full of things that are alive.”

Jack: “Alive? These vegetables were alive. Now they’re steamed to death.”

Jeeny: “You know what I mean. Real food, real colors, real nourishment. Not the grey stuff that comes in boxes.”

Jack: “I don’t need my food to look like a painting, Jeeny. I just need it to shut my stomach up.”

Host: Steam rose from the skillet, curling into the sunlight. Jack’s grey eyes caught the glint of morning, but there was a hint of fatigue behind them—the kind that comes from too many nights of fast meals and faster decisions. Jeeny placed a dish in front of him, vibrant with greens and yellows and reds, a quiet smile playing on her lips.

Jeeny: “That’s the problem. You treat food like fuel. But it’s supposed to be a conversation.”

Jack: “Conversation? Between me and a carrot?”

Jeeny: “Between you and your life. Between what you consume and what you become.”

Jack: “You sound like a wellness poster.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man who’s forgotten what beauty tastes like.”

Jack: “I’m practical, Jeeny. I eat to survive. You eat to philosophize.”

Jeeny: “No, I eat to remember. Every color, every flavor, every small detail—it reminds me that I’m part of something living.”

Host: The window framed the morning: a neighbor’s laundry swaying, a child’s laughter echoing faintly down the hall. The smell of rosemary and lemon zest mixed in the air like a memory.

Jack’s fork paused midair. The plate did look like a Christmas tree—green spinach, orange carrots, ruby pomegranate seeds sprinkled like ornaments.

Jack: “You really believe color can change people?”

Jeeny: “I believe attention can. And color is how nature gets ours.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but not scientific.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Look at the Mediterranean diet, the Okinawan one, even traditional Indian meals—they all look like a festival of color. And they all outlive us.”

Jack: “So your secret to a meaningful life is kale and turmeric?”

Jeeny: “My secret to a meaningful life is noticing what’s on your plate. And what’s missing from it.”

Jack: “You’re not just talking about food now, are you?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m talking about how we fill ourselves. Every meal is a mirror. We either eat to numb or eat to live.”

Host: A pause fell between them. Jack leaned back, the fork clinking softly against the plate. His eyes drifted toward the window again, watching a patch of sunlight fall across the table, illuminating the greens on his plate until they almost seemed to glow.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to tell me not to waste food. I’d pile on whatever I could, never cared how it looked. Food was survival, not art.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why we lose our sense of wonder as adults. We learned to fill space, not to savor it.”

Jack: “So this—” (he gestured toward the plate) “—this is what wonder looks like?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Other times, it’s in the first bite, when you actually taste something instead of rushing past it.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re describing faith.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Gratitude starts with attention.”

Jack: “And ends with guilt if the meal wasn’t organic?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Ends with awareness. Knowing that something living became part of you. That’s sacred, not sentimental.”

Host: The sound of the kettle filled the silence—a slow, soft hiss like a sigh. The light shifted again, making their faces glow, their shadows dance faintly on the wall.

Jack: “You ever think people like Moran oversimplify it? ‘Make your plate a Christmas tree.’ Easy to say if you can afford good food, time, peace.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about privilege—it’s about perception. You can find color in a street vendor’s cart if you look hard enough. You can make beauty out of beans and onions if you see them as gifts instead of chores.”

Jack: “So you think the poor can be philosophers too?”

Jeeny: “The poor always are. You learn to find meaning when the world gives you little else.”

Jack: “That’s something I forget.”

Jeeny: “That’s something you run from.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I run toward it.”

Host: The sunlight now flooded the table completely, making the greens vivid, the reds alive, the yellows radiant. Jack stared at the plate, then at Jeeny, as if he saw both for the first time—not with his eyes, but with something deeper.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve been eating like a man trying to fill a void.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the void just wants to be seen, not stuffed.”

Jack: “You really think joy can be that simple? Just color and care?”

Jeeny: “Not simple. Honest. Every act of attention is an act of love. Even toward yourself.”

Jack: “So this salad is love.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And discipline. And patience. And beauty. Like all the good things that last.”

Host: He took a bite, slowly this time, chewing with thought, not habit. The flavors—sharp, bright, earthy—blended in a way that disarmed him. For a moment, the world seemed to hum quietly in rhythm with the taste.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? It feels alive.”

Jeeny: “It is. And so are you.”

Jack: “You always turn meals into sermons.”

Jeeny: “Maybe sermons are just the moments we remember to listen.”

Jack: “To what?”

Jeeny: “To what feeds us—body and soul.”

Host: The morning had deepened into late light, soft and forgiving. Outside, a church bell tolled once. Jack set his fork down, smiling faintly, his eyes calmer than before.

Jack: “You win, Jeeny. The plate’s a Christmas tree, and I guess I’m the Grinch learning to taste color again.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You’re just remembering that food isn’t survival—it’s celebration.”

Jack: “And celebration is…?”

Jeeny: “A form of gratitude.”

Host: The room quieted, filled with sunlight and the scent of rosemary. Jeeny reached for his plate, added a sprig of parsley, and smiled.

Her voice was soft, but full of meaning:

Jeeny: “See? A little more green. Life always needs another shade of it.”

Host: Jack laughed, low and genuine, the sound breaking like morning over the table.

And as they ate together—slowly, consciously—the world outside seemed lighter, the air brighter, as though every window, every leaf, every color had just remembered how to breathe again.

The scene closed on that single image: two souls and a plate, vivid with color—proof that even in a quiet kitchen, one could build a small, radiant Christmas out of the simplest act of living.