When I was a kid, we would get McDonalds on Christmas Eve, and

Host: The snow had begun to fall again — not the kind that blankets, but the kind that whispers — soft, slow flakes drifting through the yellow light of a lone streetlamp. The city was half-asleep, its streets glistening with ice and memory. Down a quiet block, a small 24-hour diner blinked its neon sign, half-frozen, half-hopeful: “OPEN.”

Inside, the air was warm, the smell of frying oil and coffee wrapping around the room like an old song. A radio in the corner played a low Christmas melody, scratched and distant. The windows were fogged, and in the reflection, two figures sat opposite each other in a cracked red booth — Jack and Jeeny.

Jack stirred his coffee, his breath visible against the glass, his grey eyes heavy but soft. Jeeny watched the snowflakes outside, her hands cupped around her mug, steam drifting like ghosts between them.

Jeeny: “You ever smell something that just… takes you back, Jack?”

Jack: “All the time. Usually smoke. Reminds me of the garage where my old man worked. Smelled like oil, sweat, and regret.”

Jeeny: “You’d hate mine, then. It’s fries. McDonald’s fries.”

Host: Jack looked up, one eyebrow raised, his mouth forming the ghost of a smile.

Jack: “Fries? That’s your sacred scent?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Jane Lynch once said — ‘When I was a kid, we would get McDonald’s on Christmas Eve, and that was a big deal because the closest one to the south side of Chicago was a 35-minute drive away. I remember opening the bag and smelling those fries, and even now when I smell them, it reminds me of Christmas Eve.’”

Jack: “Christmas and McDonald’s. Now that’s… poetic in a weird way.”

Jeeny: “It’s real, Jack. It’s what joy looked like for people who didn’t have a lot. A bag of fries, a car ride, a moment that felt like gold because it wasn’t guaranteed.”

Host: The waitress passed, refilling their cups without a word. The sound of coffee pouring was strangely soothing, like a small, domestic rainfall.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Everyone talks about nostalgia like it’s some sweet thing. But most of the time, it’s just poverty wrapped in memory. We remember the cheap things as beautiful because that’s all we had.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But what’s wrong with that? Beauty doesn’t need to be expensive. It just needs to be real. You think that family — Jane’s, or mine — cared about the price tag? No. They cared about the feeling.”

Jack: “Feelings don’t fill stomachs.”

Jeeny: “No, but they fill hearts. And that’s what kept people like us going. My mom used to save coins in a jar just to buy one burger to split between three kids. You don’t forget that kind of love.”

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked this time. Her eyes were bright, but behind the light, there was a familiar ache. The kind that comes from childhoods too thin on luxury, but thick with memory.

Jack: “You think it’s love that makes those memories feel holy?”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. What else could it be? It wasn’t the food, Jack — it was the effort. The drive, the smell, the ritual. When everything else was falling apart, that one small thing said, ‘You’re safe tonight.’”

Jack: “You make it sound like salvation in a paper bag.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it was.”

Host: Outside, the snow picked up, dancing under the streetlight like ash from a gentle fire. The radio played an old Sinatra tune — muffled, but still warm. Jack sighed, leaning back, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “I remember one year, we couldn’t afford a tree. My mom hung green shoelaces on the wall in the shape of one. She called it our ‘tree of necessity.’ Every morning she’d say, ‘Don’t you forget, Jack — we made that out of nothing.’”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. The miracle isn’t in the thing, it’s in the making.”

Jack: “Still feels cruel sometimes. Like the world gave us scraps and told us to call it a feast.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes those scraps became the only warmth we had. You know what that’s called?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Faith.”

Host: Her word lingered, soft but heavy, like a small bell ringing in the cold. Jack rubbed his face, chuckling under his breath — that dry, gravelly laugh that always sounded halfway between mockery and surrender.

Jack: “You and your faith. You could find divinity in a Happy Meal.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I could. You’d be surprised how much grace hides in a grease-stained bag.”

Jack: “Or maybe we just learned to survive disappointment by turning it into nostalgia.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But what’s wrong with that? Nostalgia is just the heart’s way of healing.”

Host: The waitress came back with a basket of fries, hot and crisp, the aroma cutting through the air. For a moment, both Jack and Jeeny just breathed it in — that familiar, salty smell, that simple memory reborn.

Jeeny closed her eyes, her smile almost childlike.

Jeeny: “Smell that? It’s Christmas Eve somewhere.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to.”

Host: Jack picked up a fry, twirled it between his fingers, and then bit it. The crunch echoed softly in the quiet. He chewed, staring out the window — the snow, the streetlamp, the reflection of two people who hadn’t given up, even if they pretended to.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about the thing. Maybe it’s about the waiting. The drive. The moment before the bag opens.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Hope smells like fries.”

Host: They laughed, quietly — not out of joy, but recognition. The kind of laughter that comes from people who’ve earned every good thing they ever got.

The radio switched songs — a soft gospel, low and trembling. The snow fell heavier now, covering the street in pale silence.

Jeeny: “You ever think… the reason we remember the smallest things — the food, the smell, the ride — is because those were the moments we were seen?”

Jack: “Yeah. And I guess, for a second, that’s enough.”

Host: They sat in the flickering light, sharing fries like a small, sacred ritual. Outside, the snow kept falling, each flake a tiny piece of grace landing on a tired city that refused to stop believing.

And in that diner, two souls who had known the long drive toward hope remembered what Christmas really smelled like — not miracles, not money, but the warm, salty, ordinary holiness of being alive together.