Food is medicine. We can actually change our gene expressions

Host:
The afternoon light poured through the wide windows of the small downtown café, spilling across the worn wooden tables like honey. The sound of the espresso machine hissed softly in the background, mingling with the faint chatter of a few patrons and the scent of roasted coffee beans. Outside, the city moved in its usual rhythm — cars, footsteps, snippets of conversation — yet inside, everything felt slower, as if time had decided to rest its head here.

Jack sat at the corner table, his sleeves rolled up, a pen between his fingers, and a notebook half-filled with scribbles that were more questions than answers. Across from him sat Jeeny, her dark hair tied loosely, a bowl of salad in front of her, untouched for the last five minutes. There was something weighty in their silence — the kind that isn’t uncomfortable, but thick with thought.

On the table between them was a magazine, open to an interview with Dr. David Perlmutter. The quote at the top of the page read:
“Food is medicine. We can actually change our gene expressions with the foods we eat.”

Jack had just read it aloud. And now, the debate began.

Jack:
(he leans back, tapping the pen lightly on the table)
"You know, Jeeny, I’ve always thought this whole ‘food as medicine’ thing sounds more like poetic marketing than real science. Changing our genes with what we eat? That’s a bold claim."

(He smirks, but his tone carries more curiosity than cynicism.)
"I mean, I get that food affects our bodies — sugar, fat, metabolism — sure. But altering gene expression? It feels like the kind of thing people say to make broccoli sound spiritual."

Jeeny:
(she smiles, shaking her head, her voice warm but firm)
"You’re underestimating the power of food, Jack. It’s not just fuel; it’s information. Every meal we eat sends signals to our cells, influences our hormones, and yes — affects our genes. There’s real science behind this. It’s called epigenetics."

(She leans forward slightly, her tone becoming more passionate.)
"Think about it — your genes are like the sheet music, but your lifestyle, your nutrition, your stress — those are the musicians. They decide how the music is played. We can’t change the notes, but we can change how the song sounds."

Host:
The late afternoon sun shifted, cutting across the room and landing on the notebook between them, illuminating the edges of the paper. Jack’s pen stopped tapping. His grey eyes narrowed slightly — not in resistance, but in thought. The faint hum of the coffee grinder filled the momentary silence.

Jack:
(he raises an eyebrow)
"Epigenetics, huh? I’ve heard the term, but it always feels like one of those things people throw around without really understanding it. So what, you’re saying eating avocados can make me a different person?"

(He chuckles, his sarcasm gentle, almost playful.)
"Because if that’s the case, I’ll take ten. Maybe they’ll rewrite the genes that make me late to everything."

Jeeny:
(she laughs softly, but her tone remains steady)
"That’s not quite how it works, Jack. But it’s not far off, either. Food can influence which genes are turned on or off — not in a dramatic overnight way, but over time, consistently. It’s the difference between inflammation and healing, disease and vitality."

(She picks up a fork, gesturing slightly with it.)
"For example — the Mediterranean diet, filled with healthy fats, vegetables, and antioxidants, has been shown to change gene expression related to heart disease and brain health. It literally reprograms the way your cells behave. Meanwhile, processed food, sugar, and trans fats do the opposite — they switch on genes related to inflammation and degeneration."

(She sets the fork down again, her voice lowering into something quieter, more reflective.)
"Our bodies are always listening to what we feed them. The question is — what are we telling them to do?"

Host:
The sound of the city outside seeps through the open window — a car horn, a burst of laughter, the faint barking of a dog — yet inside, everything feels still. Jack looks at Jeeny for a moment, the weight of her words settling in. His skeptical half fights to stay upright, but something deeper in him stirs, the part that remembers the sleepless nights, the headaches, the fatigue that no medication seemed to fix.

He sighs softly, running a hand through his hair, a gesture of reluctant acceptance.

Jack:
(quietly)
"So you’re saying it’s not just about food curing disease, but food preventing it — even shaping who we become, in a way."

(He looks at her, half-smiling, but his tone has softened.)
"I guess it’s easier to pop a pill than to look at what’s on our plate. Maybe that’s the real problem — people would rather outsource their health than own it."

Jeeny:
(nodding, her eyes bright)
"Exactly. We live in a world that treats symptoms, not causes. We wait for things to break, then scramble for a fix. But the truth is, the fix is already in our hands — or, more precisely, in our kitchens."

(She pauses, her expression thoughtful, almost wistful.)
"We’re so disconnected from what we eat. Our ancestors didn’t have to think about whether their food was medicine — it just was. They ate close to the earth, unprocessed, natural. We’ve forgotten that food is supposed to be a relationship, not a transaction."

Host:
Jeeny’s words linger in the air, like the fading echo of something both ancient and true. The café’s light grows softer as the sun begins to dip below the skyline. Jack watches her, his skepticism slowly dissolving into something more like contemplation. The pen in his hand is still now — as if he’s writing internally instead of on the page.

Outside, the reflection of the setting sun turns the window into a mirror. Jack’s face, half in shadow, looks older, more introspective, as if he’s seeing himself through her words.

Jack:
(slowly, with a small smile)
"You make it sound almost spiritual, Jeeny. Food as a conversation with your body. Not just feeding it, but listening to it. I guess we forget that food is the only medicine we take three times a day without thinking."

(He chuckles softly, shaking his head.)
"I used to think health was all about willpower. Now it seems it’s more about awareness."

Jeeny:
(smiling gently)
"Awareness is everything, Jack. The moment we realize that every bite we take is either healing us or harming us, everything changes. It’s not about being perfect — it’s about being conscious. About choosing what gives you life, not what slowly takes it away."

(She glances down at her bowl, then back up at him, her eyes soft but steady.)
"You don’t have to start with kale smoothies or green powders. Just start with respect — for your body, for what you put into it, for the fact that what you eat becomes a part of who you are. Literally."

Host:
The last light of the day fades, replaced by the warm amber of the café’s lamps. The city outside continues its endless movement, but in that small space, time seems to pause. Jack looks down at the untouched pastry beside his notebook, then back at Jeeny’s salad — a faint, knowing smile curving his lips.

He doesn’t say anything, but she can see it in his eyes — something has shifted. Not a conversion, but an awakening.

The hum of the café fades as the moment stretches, and then, softly, the rain begins to fall — slow, rhythmic, and cleansing.

Jack:
(quietly, almost to himself)
"Food as medicine... I guess that means we write our own prescriptions every day, huh?"

Jeeny:
(grinning, her voice light but full of meaning)
"Exactly, Jack. Every meal’s a chance to rewrite yourself."

Host:
The rain continues outside, washing the city in a soft glow. Inside, the conversation lingers — two souls caught in the quiet understanding that the simplest truths are often the most profound.

The body listens. The cells respond. The genes remember.

And somewhere between the fork and the heart, healing begins.