Gluten intolerance and celiac disease are direct results of

Host: The rain fell in thin, silver threads over the wooden roof of an old farmhouse café. The sky was a heavy gray, like the weight of memory pressing against the horizon. Inside, the air smelled of coffee, wheat, and something faintly burnt — like the echo of a field after harvest.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes reflecting the motion of passing trucks, his hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee that had long gone cold. Jeeny, across from him, leaned forward with her chin resting on her hands, her eyes deep and sad, watching the steam rise from her tea as if it were thought itself taking shape.

The radio hummed faintly in the background, playing an old country song about land, love, and loss.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how we’ve turned food — the very essence of life — into something that hurts us, Jack? Joel Salatin said, ‘Gluten intolerance and celiac disease are direct results of American agriculture policy and, specifically, the government's wading into the food arena.’ Sometimes I think he’s right. We’ve poisoned our own table.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “You make it sound like a conspiracy, Jeeny. The government, the fields, the bread — all tied together in some tragic drama. But maybe people just eat too much processed junk. Cause and effect — no villains needed.”

Host: The rain grew louder, a rhythmic drumming against the window, as if the world itself wanted to join their argument. The light flickered from a neon sign outside — “FARM TO TABLE” — the irony not lost on either of them.

Jeeny: “But that’s just it, Jack. It’s not about villains — it’s about systems. About choices made decades ago when we decided to subsidize corn, wheat, and soy — not for health, but for profit. The fields stopped feeding people and started feeding industries. And now we’re all sick.”

Jack: “You mean to tell me gluten intolerance is a policy problem, not a biological one?”

Jeeny: “Yes — or at least, policy-made biology. You know the wheat we eat today isn’t the same as it was fifty years ago. It’s been hybridized, engineered to yield more, resist pests, and bake lighter bread. But in that process, we altered its proteins, and now our bodies don’t recognize them. That’s not nature — that’s intervention.”

Jack: “And you think the government orchestrated that? Come on. It’s market evolution — demand and supply. People wanted cheap food; industries delivered. That’s not a conspiracy, that’s economics.”

Host: Jack’s voice was steady, but his jaw tightened. He was a man who had seen machines replace hands, efficiency replace craft — and yet he had always defended it, because it was the language of survival he understood.

Jeeny: “But at what cost, Jack? You’ve seen the numbers — autoimmune diseases rising, digestive disorders doubling. People are allergic to bread now. Bread, Jack! The symbol of life, of community, of sustenance. Doesn’t that tell you something’s gone wrong?”

Jack: “Maybe people just became softer. Maybe our bodies are weaker because we live too comfortably. Every generation blames something — the air, the water, the government. But the truth is simpler: life changes, and we adapt or we don’t.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We didn’t adapt. We tampered. We took soil and seed, and turned them into contracts and chemistry. Monsanto patented life, and the government called it progress. That’s not adaptation — that’s arrogance.”

Host: The rain eased for a moment, and a sliver of light slipped through the clouds, striking the table between them — half shadow, half gold. Their hands rested near each other, not touching, but trembling with opposition and truth.

Jack: “Arrogance or innovation? Those so-called tamperings fed the world, Jeeny. You think small organic farms could have sustained 8 billion people? Be honest — without industrial agriculture, half the planet would starve.”

Jeeny: “Fed? Maybe in quantity, not in quality. We filled bellies but emptied souls. What’s the point of feeding 8 billion if we make them sick, disconnected, and dependent? We solved hunger, but created disease.”

Jack: “Disease was always part of life. And dependency — well, that’s just another form of society. People depend on systems; systems depend on control. You can’t run a world on romantic ideals of self-sufficient farms.”

Host: The wind rattled the window, and a tractor’s roar echoed distantly, the engine sound merging with the storm. The smell of wet earth drifted in, grounding their words in something older than both.

Jeeny: “You say romantic as if it’s a flaw. But it was romance that made people stay in the fields. It was love of soil, not subsidy, that built the first farms. We traded that for efficiency. For control.”

Jack: “Control is the only reason we’re not starving, Jeeny. You think nature cares if we live or die? We built civilization by mastering it. Maybe the cost is a few allergies.”

Jeeny: “A few? Millions are affected, Jack. Children who can’t eat a slice of bread without pain. Mothers who can’t feed their families without reading labels like scientists. That’s not control — that’s bondage.”

Host: The air between them thickened. Jack’s eyes darted away, fixed on the rain outside, where a farmer was loading sacks of grain into a pickup truck — the image of labor turned mechanical, the soul of farming turned commerce.

Jack: (quietly) “You think it was different before? My grandfather farmed until his hands split open. He died in debt, Jeeny. The same government you blame — it saved his son from the same fate. The subsidies, the price controls — they kept families alive. That’s the other side of your story.”

Jeeny: (softer now) “And yet, those same policies buried the small farmers, Jack. They made your grandfather’s kind obsolete. The family farm became a factory. We gained efficiency, but lost integrity.”

Host: A long silence followed. Only the tick of the wall clock filled the room. Time felt heavy, like an old ledger being balanced between heart and reason.

Jack: “So what’s your solution, Jeeny? Go back to plows and prayer? Organic fields and hope?”

Jeeny: “No. Not backward — inward. To remember that food isn’t just fuel, it’s relationship. Between the soil and the soul, the hand and the seed. If the government stopped meddling, maybe people would rediscover that. Maybe the earth would heal.”

Jack: “You want freedom from the very structure that made your breakfast possible. That’s idealism, not policy.”

Jeeny: “And you want safety in a system that’s quietly killing us. That’s not realism — that’s fear.”

Host: Her words landed like quiet thunder. Jack’s shoulders stiffened, then relaxed. He looked at her as if seeing her not as an opponent, but as someone mourning something deeply lost — a world where bread still meant home, not hazard.

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe we both want the same thing — to feel safe when we eat. You think it comes from purity, I think it comes from structure. Maybe both are true.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Maybe the system can’t be undone — but it can be made honest again. If we remember that agriculture isn’t just economy, it’s ethics.”

Jack: “Ethics don’t fill a plate.”

Jeeny: “But they give it meaning.”

Host: The storm began to ease, and through the thinning clouds, a faint glow of late afternoon sunlight broke across the wet fields. The world outside shimmered — every blade of grass holding a single drop of light.

Jack reached for his coffee, took a slow sip, and then — almost imperceptibly — nodded.

Jack: “You know, I used to love the smell of freshly plowed earth. My grandfather said it was the scent of truth. Maybe that’s what we’ve lost — not the wheat, not the policy — but the truth in what we grow.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe we can still find it, Jack. One seed at a time.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped entirely. A bird lifted from a wet fencepost, its wings cutting through the golden air. Inside, silence settled like a soft blanket, not of defeat, but of understanding — the kind that lingers after a storm has passed, when everything, even the smallest thing, feels alive again.