My family, as you can probably guess, was more into Christmas

Host: The café was wrapped in soft golden light, the kind that drifts through old windows on a winter afternoon. Snowflakes floated lazily beyond the glass, melting on contact with the warmth inside. A faint smell of espresso, sugar, and vanilla hung in the air, mingling with the quiet hum of a holiday playlist.

Jack sat at the corner table, leaning back in his chair, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, the other tapping lightly against the wood. His grey eyes shifted toward the window, watching children pull their sleds through the snow. Across from him, Jeeny held a small box of Christmas cookies, tied with a red ribbon, her fingers tracing the edges absentmindedly.

Jeeny: “You know, Christina Tosi once said, ‘My family, as you can probably guess, was more into Christmas cookies and not so much the fruitcake.’”

Jack: “A funny way to say her family preferred what’s sweet and simple over what’s… complicated and dense.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not funny — maybe honest. Sometimes the simplest things are what keep a family together.”

Host: The espresso machine hissed, releasing a burst of steam. A small child laughed near the door, the sound bright and innocent. Jack’s mouth curved into a faint, almost skeptical smile.

Jack: “You think cookies do that? Keep people together?”

Jeeny: “Not the cookies themselves. What they represent. The warmth, the tradition, the act of making something for each other. It’s love baked into dough.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just sugar and nostalgia, Jeeny. We romanticize it because it’s easier than admitting that families fall apart whether you bake or not.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s had too many fruitcakes and not enough love.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, but there was a spark — the kind that appears when belief collides with skepticism. Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, the steam fogging his glasses for a moment before he spoke again.

Jack: “You know what a fruitcake is? It’s dense, overly sweet, and stuffed with things that don’t belong together — like families pretending to enjoy the holidays when everyone secretly wants to be somewhere else.”

Jeeny: “You really think that’s all it is? Maybe fruitcake is exactly like families — imperfect, heavy, but made to last. It’s tough to chew through, but it doesn’t spoil easily.”

Host: A pause. The music shifted to a slow piano version of “Silent Night.” The room felt thicker, like the air itself was listening.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But let’s be real. Most people throw the fruitcake away. They want cookies — quick pleasure, easy sweetness, nothing that takes effort to swallow.”

Jeeny: “That’s because people today are afraid of effort. They don’t want what lasts. They want what flatters them in the moment. Cookies are easy. Fruitcake is patience, endurance, forgiveness.”

Jack: “Forgiveness? You’re stretching it.”

Jeeny: “Am I? Think about it. When families gather, they bring all their baggage — mistakes, grudges, old wounds. Yet somehow, they still show up. They bake. They laugh. They pretend. That’s forgiveness in disguise.”

Host: Jack shifted, his chair creaking slightly. A gust of wind rattled the window, and a few flakes stuck to the glass before melting. He looked at her, his expression softening, though his voice remained edged with irony.

Jack: “So, you’re saying the fruitcake people are the ones who forgive, and the cookie people just… want comfort?”

Jeeny: “Not exactly. I’m saying life needs both. The sweetness to remind us of joy — the weight to remind us of endurance.”

Jack: “You sound like a Christmas card.”

Jeeny: “Maybe Christmas cards are what keep some people from breaking. Words can hold people up, you know.”

Host: The candle on their table flickered, casting dancing shadows across their faces. For a moment, the café felt like a small theatre, the two of them caught in the glow of their own quiet conflict.

Jack: “My family didn’t have Christmas cookies or fruitcake. We had silence. My father worked through every holiday; my mother just stopped decorating after a while. There was nothing to sweeten or preserve.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are — talking about it. So, something inside you remembers.”

Jack: “Memory’s not warmth, Jeeny. It’s just the ghost of it.”

Jeeny: “No. Memory is the ember that still glows after the fire burns out. It means it mattered.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, just for a second — a shadow of something vulnerable, quickly masked. He set his cup down, the sound crisp in the quiet air.

Jack: “You always find light in ashes, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Because ashes mean there was once fire.”

Host: The clock ticked, slow and deliberate. The conversation, like the snowfall, had softened but deepened. Outside, a couple walked by, their hands entwined, laughing as their breath steamed in the cold.

Jack: “Alright. Let’s say you’re right. What about people who have no one to bake with? No family to share the cookies or fruitcake with? What do they cling to then?”

Jeeny: “They cling to hope. To memory. To the idea that someone, somewhere, once shared warmth with them — and that it can happen again.”

Jack: “That sounds naïve.”

Jeeny: “It’s human. Even soldiers in trenches used to share chocolate bars on Christmas Eve during the war. Do you think that was naïve, or necessary?”

Host: Jack leaned back, his gaze wandering toward the ceiling as if searching for an answer written in the shadows. The mention of war hung between them like smoke.

Jack: “I read about that. 1914 — the Christmas truce. Enemies sharing carols and cigarettes. For one night, they forgot who they were supposed to hate.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the fruitcake of humanity — heavy, strange, impossible to digest — but it keeps. It survives the worst of us.”

Host: A small smile formed at the corner of Jack’s mouth. It wasn’t quite joy, but it was close to recognition.

Jack: “So maybe you’re saying Tosi was right — some families are cookie people, some are fruitcake people. But maybe the real trick is learning to taste both without spitting either out.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because life isn’t made of one flavor. It’s the contrast that makes it beautiful. You need sweetness to remember joy — bitterness to understand it.”

Host: The barista refilled a tray of pastries, their scent rising into the air. The café seemed warmer now, as if their words had shifted something invisible in the room.

Jack: “You really believe traditions matter that much?”

Jeeny: “I believe they’re how we tell time with love. Every cookie baked, every strange old fruitcake — it’s a reminder that someone cared enough to remember.”

Jack: “Even if the world keeps forgetting?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: Silence settled again — not cold, but comfortable. Jack looked at the cookie box between them, then pushed it toward her.

Jack: “Alright. Let’s see what the cookie people are all about.”

Jeeny: “Careful. They’re dangerous. One bite and you might start believing again.”

Jack: “In Christmas?”

Jeeny: “In connection.”

Host: Jeeny untied the red ribbon, opening the box. A faint whiff of butter and cinnamon rose between them. She handed him one. Their fingers brushed, a small electric spark of warmth amid the cold world outside.

Jack took a bite, chewed slowly, and laughed softly — the sound rough, but real.

Jack: “You’re right. Too sweet. But it tastes… like a memory trying to find its way home.”

Jeeny: “That’s all any of us are, Jack. Memories trying to find their way home.”

Host: Outside, the snow fell heavier, blanketing the city in soft whiteness. The window fogged, blurring the world into a watercolor of light and motion.

Inside, the two figures sat quietly, their coffee cooling, their words still hanging like ornaments in the air — fragile, reflective, beautiful.

Host: And somewhere between the sweetness of cookies and the weight of fruitcake, they found something neither could name — a kind of forgiveness, maybe, or faith — the quiet taste of being human together.