Create a garden; bring children to farms for field trips. I think

Host: The morning air was cool and fragrant — the kind of air that carried both earth and hope in its breath.
The schoolyard had been transformed: where asphalt once cracked under the weight of shoes and noise, now grew rows of green — kale, rosemary, sunflowers, and tomatoes. The small garden shimmered with dew, each leaf trembling in the soft light of early sun.

A group of children ran through the rows with the clumsy grace of joy, laughter mingling with the chirping of sparrows and the faint rustle of leaves. Their voices carried the rhythm of discovery — the sound of the world learning to breathe again.

Jack leaned against the fence, a cup of coffee in hand, his grey eyes half-closed against the light. There was dirt on his boots and a leaf caught in his jacket sleeve. He didn’t seem to mind.

Jeeny was crouched by a raised bed, helping a little boy plant beans, her hands covered in soil, her smile unguarded. When she stood, brushing her palms on her jeans, she looked at Jack — her expression warm, like she’d caught him watching.

Jeeny: “Alice Waters once said — ‘Create a garden; bring children to farms for field trips. I think it’s important that parents and teachers get together to do one or two things they can accomplish well — a teaching garden, connecting with farms nearby, weave food into the curriculum.’”

Jack: smirks faintly, sipping his coffee “Sounds simple enough. Harder in practice.”

Jeeny: smiling “Everything worth doing is.”

Host: The children’s laughter rose again — one of them had found a worm and was holding it up triumphantly. Jeeny laughed with them, her voice carried on the breeze, light and real.

Jack: after a pause “You really think this changes anything? A few vegetables in a schoolyard? Seems symbolic more than practical.”

Jeeny: “Symbols are where change begins, Jack. You plant a seed — it’s not just about the plant. It’s about showing them they can grow something. That they can be part of something alive.”

Jack: “Still — it’s not gonna feed them.”

Jeeny: “Not just their stomachs. Their understanding. Their connection. You teach a child where food comes from, they start seeing the world differently. Food isn’t just consumption. It’s community.”

Host: She walked to a nearby patch of lettuce, knelt, and pulled one leaf free, turning it in her fingers — green and veined, luminous in the sunlight.

Jeeny: “You see this? It’s not just a leaf. It’s sunlight, soil, rain, human care — all working together. That’s what she meant — Waters. The garden isn’t a lesson plan; it’s a metaphor for society.”

Jack: half-smiling, thoughtful “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “Maybe Alice Waters was one. A preacher of the edible gospel.”

Host: The wind carried the scent of mint and tilled soil. Somewhere, a school bell rang — not to call them inside, but to remind them of time passing gently.

Jack: “You think kids even care? Half of them probably prefer chips and soda to all this ‘fresh food’ talk.”

Jeeny: “Of course they do. But that’s the point. They prefer what they’ve been given. You change what they’re given, you change what they crave. You build the world by rebuilding taste.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Rebuilding taste — that’s poetic.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “It’s not poetry. It’s justice.”

Host: The sunlight grew warmer, painting the wooden fences gold. Jack watched the children carefully dropping seeds into the soil, their little hands hesitant but earnest.

Jeeny leaned against the fence beside him, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist.

Jeeny: “You see that little girl over there? She’s never been to a farm. She didn’t know where milk came from until today. When we told her, she just stared — like the world had opened.”

Jack: “And now she knows?”

Jeeny: “Now she respects it. You can’t love what you don’t understand, Jack. That’s the problem with how we eat — and how we live.”

Jack: quietly “We consume without gratitude.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And when we lose gratitude, we lose balance.”

Host: A breeze stirred the leaves, and the garden seemed to breathe with them — a soft exhale of life. The children began to water the beds, each of them holding tiny cans, their faces glowing with pride.

Jack: “You think it’s really possible to bring this to every school? It feels… idealistic.”

Jeeny: “It’s possible one garden at a time. One teacher who decides to care. One parent who decides to show up.”

Jack: after a pause “You believe in small revolutions.”

Jeeny: grinning “They’re the only ones that last.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like seeds on the wind. Jack’s expression softened — a flicker of something between admiration and understanding.

Jack: “You know, my father used to keep a garden behind our house. Tiny thing — barely more than a few tomato plants. But every summer he’d say, ‘We’re feeding the family tonight,’ like it was a victory.”

Jeeny: “It was. It still is.”

Jack: nostalgic smile “I didn’t get it back then. I just thought it was a hobby. But maybe… maybe it was his way of believing in something simple. Something pure.”

Jeeny: gently “That’s what we’ve forgotten — that purity doesn’t come from what we build, but from what we grow.”

Host: The children gathered around Jeeny now, holding up their small baskets of greens, proud and beaming. Jeeny knelt among them, listening to their chatter, her eyes alive with light.

Jack watched her — and for a moment, he looked at her the way one might look at spring after a long winter.

She turned, catching his gaze, and smiled softly.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack? This is what healing looks like. Dirt under your nails. Seeds in your hand. And a future growing one inch at a time.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So, the garden’s the teacher.”

Jeeny: “Always has been.”

Host: The bell rang again — signaling the end of the session. The children scattered, laughing, their hands still stained with soil, their shoes leaving trails of mud across the concrete.

Jeeny stood, dusting off her jeans. Jack joined her at the gate.

Jeeny: “Alice Waters didn’t just want gardens, Jack. She wanted reconnection — between land, body, and soul. Between what we eat and what we are.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe she’s right. Maybe every revolution starts with a seed.”

Jeeny: smiling “Then let’s keep planting.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — the garden glowing under the rising sun, the city stretching beyond it, vast and uncertain.

But here, in this small patch of earth, something true was growing.
Not just food. Not just hope.
But the memory of how to belong to the world again.

And as the last image faded — children laughing, soil turning, life continuing — Alice Waters’ words echoed like prayer:

“Create a garden.”

For in that act — in every humble seed and every patient hand — lies the quiet promise
that we can still nurture what we love,
that we can still teach through growing,
and that one day, we may learn again
to eat with wonder, and live with care.