On Christmas morning, we always make breakfast, and everyone eats

Host: The morning light broke softly over the suburban street, pale and golden, spilling through the frosted windowpanes of a small brick house at the end of the lane. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cinnamon, apples, and fresh muffins — the kind of aroma that carries memory in every breath. A faint holiday tune played from an old radio, its melody mingling with the crackling of the fireplace.

Jack sat at the kitchen table, in his usual gray sweater, staring at the steam rising from a cup of coffee. Across from him, Jeeny moved quietly between the stove and the counter, her hair tied up, her hands dusted with flour, her eyes bright with that particular joy that comes only from small rituals.

Host: Outside, snow fell lazily, like time itself had slowed for the day. The house seemed wrapped in a warm silence, alive only with the soft clatter of dishes and the whisper of old traditions refusing to die.

Jeeny: “Laura Leighton once said, ‘On Christmas morning, we always make breakfast, and everyone eats before we open any presents. I make muffins and homemade applesauce, which I don't think anyone likes as much as I do... I just love the way it makes the house smell!’”

Jack: “Heh. That sounds about right. Half the traditions people keep aren’t for anyone else — just for themselves. Nostalgia disguised as generosity.”

Host: Jeeny turned, a wooden spoon in hand, her brows arched, half amused, half wounded. The sunlight hit her cheek, giving her a soft, almost holy glow.

Jeeny: “You make it sound selfish. What’s wrong with doing something just because it fills your heart? Maybe she knows no one loves the applesauce — but that smell, Jack… that’s not just nostalgia. It’s a reminder that love still lives in small things.”

Jack: “Love and scent — an odd combination. But maybe that’s what people cling to when the world feels too big. The smell of apples and cinnamon instead of thinking about wars, bills, and headlines.”

Jeeny: “Exactly! That’s the miracle of it. The simple act of making breakfast becomes resistance. Against chaos, against cynicism. She’s saying: ‘Today, in this little kitchen, there will be warmth, no matter what the world outside is doing.’”

Host: The kettle whistled softly. Jeeny poured the tea, her movements deliberate, like a dancer performing an old choreography. Jack watched her, his eyes distant, as if the memory of another kitchen — another Christmas — lingered behind his gaze.

Jack: “You talk like a philosopher about muffins, Jeeny. But tell me — does it matter if no one appreciates it? If everyone just eats to be polite?”

Jeeny: “It matters precisely because she does it anyway. That’s the beauty of it — giving without expectation. The act itself is the gift.”

Jack: “You mean, tradition as self-sacrifice?”

Jeeny: “No — tradition as faith. The faith that something as small as a smell can keep a family whole.”

Host: The fireplace crackled louder. The smell of baked apples filled the room, clinging to every curtain, every memory. Outside, a child’s laughter echoed faintly from the street.

Jack: “I used to think Christmas was about the presents. The noise, the paper, the distraction. But when my mother died, all I remembered was her standing at the stove — that same smell. Apples and cloves. It’s strange how a scent can outlive a person.”

Jeeny: “That’s not strange. That’s love’s architecture, Jack. Invisible, but lasting. Laura Leighton’s words aren’t about breakfast — they’re about the way scent becomes memory, and memory becomes family.”

Jack: “You think love can live in air molecules?”

Jeeny: “Why not? It’s where everything else lives — prayers, music, laughter. The things you can’t hold but can never lose.”

Host: The windowpane fogged as Jeeny approached it, looking out at the snow, her breath clouding the glass. Jack followed her gaze — children running through the street, a father dragging a tree to the curb, a mother waving from the porch. Life moving, in quiet, ordinary motion.

Jack: “You make it sound so eternal. But isn’t there a sadness in it too? That she keeps baking muffins no one wants — just to feel something that’s gone?”

Jeeny: “That’s not sadness, Jack. That’s devotion. The kind of love that keeps giving even when it’s not received. Like lighting a candle in an empty church. She’s not waiting for applause — she’s keeping the spirit alive.”

Jack: “And yet, it’s lonely.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But all love has loneliness in it. The difference is whether you choose to see that loneliness as pain or as proof — proof that you still care.”

Host: The clock ticked softly. The smell in the room deepened, thick with sugar and nostalgia. Jeeny placed a tray of muffins on the table, their tops cracked and golden.

Jack reached for one, still steaming. He broke it open — the inside soft, the scent of apples rising like memory itself.

Jack: “You’re right. Maybe it’s not about who likes it. Maybe it’s about what it keeps alive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The smell of home, the sound of laughter — even when they fade, they echo. We live to create those echoes.”

Host: Jack took a bite, his expression softening, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. Jeeny watched him — no victory, just quiet understanding.

Jack: “My mother used to hum while cooking. The same three notes, over and over. I never realized until now how much I miss that sound. Maybe that’s my version of her applesauce.”

Jeeny: “See? That’s the gift. We inherit love through the senses. Every smell, every sound — they’re all little ghosts that keep us human.”

Host: The light shifted, golden now, like a memory made flesh. The house seemed to breathe — the walls expanding with warmth, the floorboards creaking as if stretching under the weight of comfort.

Jeeny: “I think that’s why Laura Leighton said she loves the way it makes the house smell. It’s not about taste. It’s about creating a world where love lingers — in the air, in the walls, in every breath that passes through the home.”

Jack: “So, in a way, the smell is her prayer.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And every Christmas morning, she lights that prayer again.”

Host: The radio hummed softly in the background, a quiet carol of old voices remembering joy. The snow outside thickened, muffling the world in white. Inside, the flame in the fireplace flickered like a heartbeat, steady, enduring.

Jack: “Funny… I never thought I’d find philosophy in applesauce.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve never really smelled love, Jack.”

Host: They laughed — low, warm, the kind of laughter that folds sorrow into comfort. The candle between them burned lower, its wax pooling, its light tender.

Outside, the snowflakes danced in the morning sun, as if the world itself were celebrating something unseen — the persistence of love through scent, warmth, and ritual.

Host: And in that small kitchen, surrounded by the smell of muffins and memory, two souls discovered that sometimes, the simplest acts — the smallest, most human rituals — carry the greatest truths:

That love does not always shout; sometimes, it simply smells like home.