Food, in the end, in our own tradition, is something holy. It's

Host: The evening had a stillness that could be felt. The kind of quiet that settles after laughter, after the world has spoken enough for one day. The sun had just slipped behind the hills, leaving a faint gold glow that kissed the edges of the sky, while the smell of baked bread and olive oil drifted from the kitchen of a small countryside inn.

At a wooden table by the open window, Jack and Jeeny sat, a bottle of red wine between them, the glasses half-filled, the tablecloth faintly stained — the beautiful imperfection of real life.

The candles flickered, their light dancing across bowls of pasta, tomatoes, bread, and cheese. It wasn’t a feast. It wasn’t luxury. But there was a kind of sacred simplicity to it.

Jeeny broke a piece of bread, offered it to Jack, and smiled.

Jeeny: “Louise Fresco once said, ‘Food, in the end, in our own tradition, is something holy. It’s not about nutrients and calories. It’s about sharing. It’s about honesty. It’s about identity.’”

Jack: “Holy, huh? That’s a heavy word for spaghetti and bread.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about the food, Jack. It’s about what it means. Every meal is a small act of faith — faith that the world still holds goodness enough to gather around.”

Host: The wind from the open window carried in the sound of crickets and the faint laughter of strangers dining nearby. It was one of those moments where the air itself felt alive, filled with something unspoken but deeply human.

Jack: “You make it sound spiritual. I thought food was just... survival.”

Jeeny: “You think too practically. That’s your problem. Food isn’t survival — it’s communion. It’s how we remember we belong to each other.”

Jack: “Belonging’s a dangerous word. People have killed over bread, too. Starved others to feed themselves. History’s full of tables built on hunger.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they forgot what food really is — a bridge, not a weapon. You can tell a civilization’s soul by how it eats. When food becomes fuel, we lose part of what makes us human.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his gray eyes catching the light from the candle, reflecting a quiet storm. He twirled his fork in the pasta absently, as though trying to find philosophy in motion.

Jack: “You know, I once spent a week in a refugee camp. Kids lined up for rice, no salt, no sauce, just boiled grains. And when I asked one of the volunteers if it ever got easier, she said, ‘It does. Until you see them smile with the first bite.’ That stayed with me. It’s not the food. It’s the moment. The proof that something still connects us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Fresco meant — food as identity, not indulgence. It’s how we say I see you. You exist. Every shared meal is an answer to loneliness.”

Jack: “But that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? We’ve turned meals into transactions. Coffee to-go, lunch over emails, dinner under fluorescent lights. Nobody looks up anymore.”

Jeeny: “And yet, when we do, when we sit like this — face to face, breathing the same air — something ancient wakes up inside us.”

Host: A faint breeze lifted the candle flame, and the light danced across their faces. It was as though the flame itself was listening.

Jeeny: “You know, my grandmother used to cook for everyone. Even strangers. She said that feeding someone was the purest form of truth — because you can’t lie when you’re breaking bread.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful. But naive.”

Jeeny: “Why naive?”

Jack: “Because people can pretend even over food. I’ve seen leaders toast peace deals with wine while plotting war. I’ve seen couples dine together in silence, their plates full, their hearts empty.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not the food that’s false — it’s the people. The table doesn’t lie. It just reveals what’s already there.”

Host: The sound of cutlery softened, and for a long moment they said nothing. The air was thick with truth — not heavy, just honest.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my father used to make stew every Sunday. It wasn’t good — overcooked meat, too much pepper — but he made it anyway. The one time he didn’t, I remember feeling... lost. Like the house had gone silent in some deeper way. Maybe that’s what you mean. Food isn’t about flavor. It’s about presence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Food is memory made edible. The flavor of belonging. When we eat together, we remind the soul it isn’t alone in the world.”

Jack: “So, you think food can heal trauma?”

Jeeny: “Not by itself. But it can open the door. It’s the most human ritual — to eat beside another person and say, without words, ‘You are safe here.’”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes shimmered in the candlelight. Jack watched her, his skepticism softening like butter in the warmth of her conviction.

Jack: “You sound like a priest, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just someone who’s tasted hunger — not for food, but for connection.”

Jack: “And you think this—” (he gestured to the bread, the wine, the candle) “—this can save us?”

Jeeny: “Not save us. Remind us. That’s all holiness ever does.”

Host: The candle flickered, and a faint shadow of smoke rose, curling like an old story retold through air. Outside, the rain began again — gentle, rhythmic, washing the dust off the leaves.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I believe you.”

Jeeny: “That’s not strange. You just forgot that you did.”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe all of us have. We eat, but we don’t nourish. We talk, but we don’t share. We live surrounded by abundance and die of emptiness.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it starts here — one honest meal at a time. One table that refuses to become another battlefield.”

Host: The wind from the open window shifted, and the candles flared higher, as if in agreement.

Jack raised his glass. “To honesty, then.”

Jeeny clinked hers against his. “To identity.”

Jack: “And to the holiness hiding in hunger.”

Jeeny: “Beautiful.” (She smiled.) “Because hunger isn’t just for food, Jack. It’s for truth. And truth, like bread, is meant to be broken and shared.”

Host: Outside, the rain sang quietly against the roof, the kind of song that doesn’t demand to be heard, only felt.

Inside, two souls sat, eating, talking, existing — not saints, not philosophers, just human beings reclaiming a forgotten sacrament.

The table — humble, warm, imperfect — became something sacred.

And in the candle’s last glow, the Host whispered softly into the dark:

“Food is not just what we consume. It is what reminds us we are still human enough to share.”