All the food we eat, whether Brussels sprouts or pork bellies

Host: The restaurant kitchen pulsed like a living heart — full of heat, smoke, and the sharp clatter of knives against cutting boards. The air was thick with the scent of garlic, roasted meat, and the faint metallic tang of steel. Outside, the night rain slid down the windows, painting the city in blurred lights.

Jack stood near the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring a pan with practiced precision. His grey eyes were focused, cold, yet strangely tender in the flicker of the flames. Jeeny sat at the counter, chin resting on her hand, watching him cook.

Jeeny: “You always look like you’re performing surgery when you cook.”

Jack: “It’s not that different. You cut, you measure, you apply heat — and if you mess up, something dies.”

Jeeny laughed softly. “That’s one way to look at dinner.”

Jack: “Michael Specter said something today that stuck with me: ‘All the food we eat, whether Brussels sprouts or pork bellies, has been modified by mankind. Genetic engineering is only one particularly powerful way to do what we have been doing for eleven thousand years.’”

Jeeny: “Hmm,” she mused, watching the steam rise from his pan. “He’s right, isn’t he? Every seed we’ve planted, every breed we’ve kept alive — it’s all human fingerprints.”

Jack: “Exactly. And yet people lose their minds when they hear the word ‘genetic engineering.’”

Jeeny: “Because it sounds like we’re playing God.”

Jack: “We’ve been playing God since the first farmer decided which grain to replant. The only difference now is that the lab’s cleaner and the microscope’s sharper.”

Host: The oil hissed, a flash of orange flame licking the pan’s edge. Jack didn’t flinch. The room filled with the deep, earthy aroma of caramelizing onions. Jeeny’s eyes softened, though her voice carried quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “There’s a difference between guiding nature and rewriting it. Traditional cultivation takes centuries to find balance. Genetic engineering — it jumps ahead without understanding the consequences.”

Jack: “You talk like progress is a crime. Humanity is nature, Jeeny. Everything we do — every invention, every experiment — is part of evolution’s design. We’re not separate from it. We are it.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it feel like we’re losing something in the process?”

Jack: “Because nostalgia is louder than reason.”

Host: The rain drummed heavier against the glass, each drop catching the light from the stove. Jeeny leaned closer, her reflection shimmering faintly in the windowpane — soft, human, uncertain.

Jeeny: “Do you really believe evolution wanted us to alter DNA with machines?”

Jack: “Evolution doesn’t ‘want’ anything. It just happens. Every human act — curiosity, ambition, fear — it’s all part of the same current. We splice genes because we can. The same reason bees pollinate flowers: it’s what keeps the system moving.”

Jeeny: “But nature’s system has harmony. Ours doesn’t.”

Jack: “Harmony?” Jack smirked. “Nature’s brutal, Jeeny. Lions rip apart gazelles. Trees choke each other for sunlight. Nature isn’t kind. It’s efficient. We’re just learning to be efficient too — with genes instead of claws.”

Jeeny: “Efficiency without conscience is destruction.”

Jack: “Conscience slows progress.”

Jeeny: “And progress without conscience destroys itself.”

Host: A pause fell over the room. The sizzle softened. Jack turned off the flame, letting the silence between them breathe. The steam curled upward like a ghost between their gazes.

Jeeny: “You sound like every empire before it fell — proud, certain, unbreakable.”

Jack: “And yet, every empire built the world we live in.”

Jeeny: “And left it broken.”

Host: Jack plated the food with slow, deliberate movement. A piece of seared pork belly, golden and crisp; a bed of greens, their scent sharp and sweet. He slid the dish toward her, his tone quiet but pointed.

Jack: “You see this? Pork belly. Modern pigs don’t exist in nature. They’re human invention — bred for fat, not survival. Brussels sprouts? Bred from wild mustard until they became edible. If you reject modification, you’d starve before you found something untouched.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what I’m rejecting. I’m rejecting arrogance. The belief that just because we can, we should.”

Jack: “You mean like fire? Or medicine? Or the wheel?”

Jeeny: “Don’t twist it. Fire doesn’t rewrite DNA.”

Jack: “No, but it changed the planet more than any gene-editing lab ever will. It burned forests, forged tools, built cities. Every human leap began as interference. You think we can just stop now?”

Host: The rain slowed, a whisper now against the window, like a heartbeat calming after argument. Jeeny picked up her fork, but didn’t eat. Her eyes lingered on the food — beautiful, alive, the product of human touch.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem. We never stop. We take, we change, we push — and then we call it evolution.”

Jack: “You’d rather we stay static? Wait for nature to fix starvation, or drought, or disease?”

Jeeny: “No. But I’d rather we remember humility. Evolution works because it knows balance. Humans forget that word.”

Host: Jack sat across from her now, his face lit by the soft light of the kitchen. For the first time, the fire in his eyes dimmed.

Jack: “You talk like we’re monsters. But everything you love — art, food, life — comes from the same urge to create. You can’t separate it. To build is to destroy something else.”

Jeeny: “And to destroy without feeling is to stop being human.”

Host: Their voices dropped, their words slower, heavier. The clock ticked faintly, counting not time but tension.

Jeeny: “Jack, when does progress stop being human and start being control?”

Jack: “Maybe when we start asking that question.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re already there.”

Host: The light flickered, and a draft brushed through the window cracks, carrying the smell of rain and iron. The world outside hummed with the quiet vibration of life — endless, indifferent, alive. Inside, two people sat suspended in the small gap between reason and reverence.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, “I think Specter wasn’t just talking about food. I think he meant that evolution and engineering aren’t opposites — they’re chapters of the same story.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the next chapter is learning when to stop writing.”

Jack: “Or learning to write better.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, a weary, tender curve. “You always have to get the last word.”

Jack: “Not this time.” He gestured toward her plate. “You should. Try it. Tell me if it tastes like arrogance or progress.”

Host: Jeeny lifted her fork, took a small bite, and closed her eyes. The flavors bloomed — smoke, salt, sweetness, time. She opened her eyes again, meeting his.

Jeeny: “It tastes... like both.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the truth of it. Every bite we take, every seed we plant — a mix of hubris and hope.”

Jeeny: “And maybe what makes us human is learning to live with that contradiction.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving a clean, mirrored world outside the window. Jack leaned back, the tension easing from his shoulders. Jeeny’s eyes softened, reflecting both the light and the uneasy peace between them.

In that small kitchen — filled with smoke, flame, and the quiet scent of cooked truth — they understood something simple yet profound: that creation and corruption, nature and nurture, are not enemies, but twins.

And as the last wisp of steam curled into the air, fading into the night, the world outside glowed a little softer — as if forgiving them, once more, for trying to taste the future.