Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants. That, more or less, is the

Host: The morning was hazy, a slow fog crawling over the city, turning glass towers into soft ghosts. A narrow diner sat on the corner, its neon sign half-lit, buzzing like a tired bee. Inside, the air was rich with the smell of coffee and fried eggs, the kind of scent that wrapped itself around the soul.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes reflecting the steam rising from his plate. Jeeny sat across from him, stirring her tea with absent-minded grace, her hair falling loosely over one shoulder. The morning light fell across her face, softening the sharpness of her thoughts.

Between them lay a copy of a magazine, its pages open to a quote from Michael Pollan:
“Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “I like how simple that sounds. Like he’s whispering an ancient truth everyone already knew but forgot.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Simple? It’s oversimplified. Life isn’t that clean. You think most people can afford to just ‘eat mostly plants’? Half the world’s working double shifts just to afford anything that fills them.”

Host: His voice was low, husky, carrying the weight of lived disappointment. Jeeny didn’t flinch; she had heard that tone before. She set her cup down gently, like a gesture of peace before a storm.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem, Jack. We’ve made food about money and efficiency, not living. Pollan’s right—our health has become a mystery because we turned meals into science experiments. We eat what’s cheap, not what’s true.”

Jack: “And what’s ‘true food,’ Jeeny? The kind you grow in some utopian garden? You live in a city. You can’t plant your own virtue. Supermarkets feed the world now, not backyard patches of soil.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what he’s saying—we’ve lost touch with the soil. We think food comes from packages, not from earth. The farther we get from it, the sicker we become.”

Host: The waitress passed by, placing another cup of coffee before Jack. The steam curled up in lazy swirls, almost like the ghost of the earth’s own breath. Outside, a delivery truck groaned by, its engine coughing into the air the scent of diesel and distance.

Jack: “You talk like we can go back. But we can’t. People live in towers now, not fields. You can’t feed eight billion people on romantic ideals.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about going back, Jack. It’s about remembering. Even in towers, people can choose differently. You don’t need a farm to eat with respect. You just need awareness—to see what’s on your plate and ask where it came from.”

Jack: (laughing dryly) “Awareness doesn’t fill stomachs. You think a factory worker in Detroit can choose organic kale over a dollar menu? Food’s a class issue, not a moral one.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes darkened, but not with anger—with sadness. She knew he wasn’t wrong. The diners, the trucks, the billboards selling “value meals”—they were all part of a machine too large to dismantle. Yet her voice rose softly, carrying hope like a seed in her palm.

Jeeny: “I know it’s not easy. But even the poorest people used to eat real food once. Beans, grains, vegetables—things you could grow or trade. Then we gave that away to companies that make food-like products. It’s not just poverty now—it’s disconnection.”

Jack: “And what are we supposed to do? Sit in a field eating lettuce while the world moves on?”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Maybe slow down enough to taste the lettuce. That’s what he means by ‘not too much.’ We eat for comfort, for speed, for escape—not for nourishment. Even the rich are malnourished in spirit.”

Host: A moment of quiet filled the diner. The sound of clinking cutlery faded into the background. Outside, a group of schoolchildren walked by, their laughter piercing the fog like tiny sparks of life.

Jack: “You’re turning dinner into philosophy again.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it always? Food is the most honest mirror we have. How we eat is how we live. Pollan isn’t talking just about health—he’s talking about balance. ‘Not too much’ means restraint, ‘mostly plants’ means humility. Two things this world doesn’t know anymore.”

Jack: “You make it sound like eating is some moral act. But people eat what they can, Jeeny. I’ve seen kids grow up on chips and soda because their parents had no choice. You can’t preach virtue to hunger.”

Jeeny: “And yet, hunger is the very thing that should teach us virtue. Look at history—after wars, after famines, people rediscover simplicity. Look at the Mediterranean diet—it came from scarcity, not luxury. People learned to live long on what was modest.”

Host: Jack’s hand stopped midway, fork hovering above his plate. The logic in her words unsettled him. The truth of history had a way of quieting cynicism. He leaned back, his jaw tense, his eyes distant.

Jack: “You think simplicity can save us. But people crave indulgence. Every culture’s downfall began when they had too much of everything. Rome didn’t fall because of hunger—it fell because of excess.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Pollan’s quote is more than diet advice—it’s a warning. ‘Not too much’ isn’t about food; it’s about desire. The same impulse that makes us overeat makes us overconsume, overproduce, overlive. We don’t know when to stop.”

Host: The sunlight began to pierce through the fog, painting the countertops in a dim, golden glow. Dust motes drifted through the air like tiny planets. Jack’s expression softened, the edge of argument dulling into contemplation.

Jack: “You think the answer to civilization’s greed lies in a plate of salad?”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “Maybe not. But every revolution begins with something small. A bite, a thought, a moment of choice. You can’t fix the system overnight—but you can choose not to feed it with yourself.”

Jack: “So eating is rebellion now?”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. Every time you choose real food over processed junk, you’re rejecting an industry that profits from sickness. Pollan’s simplicity is radical because it demands consciousness in a world built on distraction.”

Host: The diner’s old radio hummed faintly with an old blues song, the kind that spoke of sweat, labor, and hope. Jack listened, his fingers tapping softly against his cup, his mind turning over her words like stones in a river.

Jack: “You know, I used to laugh at all this health stuff. Thought it was privilege disguised as purity. But maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about perfection—it’s about presence. Knowing what you put into yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it is. Awareness. Gratitude. Pollan just said what grandmothers used to say: eat what’s real, stop when you’re full, respect what feeds you.”

Host: The sun had fully risen now, flooding the diner in light. The fog had lifted, revealing the city—imperfect, alive, hungry in its own way.

Jack: (grinning) “Maybe next time I’ll order the salad instead of the burger.”

Jeeny: “Maybe next time, you’ll taste it.”

Host: And with that, the scene held for a moment—the light catching in Jeeny’s eyes, the steam curling around their hands, the city pulsing outside like a living organism. Two people, sharing a small, defiant act of clarity in a world drowning in excess.

Because sometimes, the simplest truths are the hardest to remember:
Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.

The camera would linger there, just long enough for the sizzle of the grill to fade into the sound of breathing—the earth’s and their own—before the screen slowly faded to white.