I am not a vegetarian. I subscribe to my own mantra: eat less

Host: The market was waking up. Dawn painted the city in soft gold and smoke, and the smell of freshly baked bread drifted between stalls where vendors called out over crates of tomatoes, lemons, and green herbs glistening with dew. The air buzzed with small talk, bargaining, laughter — the quiet symphony of everyday survival.

Jack walked through the crowd, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp but tired. His coat brushed against crates of oranges stacked high like a small sun. He looked out of place — too structured, too neat — in a place built on rhythm and mess.

Jeeny followed behind, carrying a basket already half full of produce — bright peppers, leafy greens, and a small loaf of crusty bread. Her movements were fluid, deliberate, like someone who knew how to live with both intention and appetite.

They stopped at a stall selling olives and herbs. The vendor smiled, his hands stained green with basil.

Jeeny: to Jack, smiling “Marion Nestle once said — ‘I am not a vegetarian. I subscribe to my own mantra: eat less, move more, eat plenty of fruits and vegetables, don't eat too much junk food, and enjoy what you eat. Or, to summarise: eat less, eat better, move more, and get political.’”

Jack: smirking faintly “Eat better, move more, and get political. That last part ruins the picnic.”

Jeeny: laughing “That’s the point, Jack. Food’s not just pleasure — it’s power. Every bite you take votes for the world you live in.”

Host: A bird darted overhead, landing on a stall pole, chirping like it agreed. The vendor handed Jeeny a handful of mint leaves. She smelled them and smiled. Jack looked at her, amused but curious.

Jack: “You’re saying my sandwich is a political act?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Every dollar you spend on food feeds a system. You’re either nourishing people or poisoning them. There’s no neutral meal anymore.”

Jack: half-laughing “That’s exhausting. I just want to eat a burger without carrying the weight of the world on the bun.”

Jeeny: grinning “Then make it a good burger — one that doesn’t come with a side of exploitation.”

Host: She handed him a tomato from her basket — red, ripe, fragrant. Jack turned it over in his hand, feeling its weight, its imperfection.

Jack: thoughtfully “You know, it’s funny. People spend billions on health products, diet trends, miracle foods — and all Nestle’s saying is: eat like your grandparents did.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The simplest wisdom always sounds revolutionary when you’ve lost touch with it.”

Jack: smirking “And the political part?”

Jeeny: “That’s the one people like you always skip.”

Jack: grinning “People like me?”

Jeeny: “The pragmatic ones. The ones who think eating well is personal, not political. But tell that to the farm worker who gets paid nothing, or the kid growing up on fast food because fresh vegetables cost double.”

Host: A gust of wind passed through, lifting bits of paper, the smell of garlic and rosemary thick in the air. Jeeny turned toward the next stall, her basket swinging gently at her side.

Jack followed, quieter now.

Jack: after a long pause “You really think individual choices can change anything? We’re talking about massive corporations, global systems — we’re specks against that machine.”

Jeeny: “Specks become storms, Jack. Change starts with habits, not headlines. You eat differently, you demand differently, you spend differently — the system eventually listens.”

Jack: half-smiling, eyes on the produce “That sounds a lot like faith.”

Jeeny: “It is. Faith in collective appetite.”

Host: She stopped at a table lined with jars of honey, their golden contents glowing like captured sunlight. The vendor offered them samples. She dipped a wooden stick, tasted, and nodded approvingly.

Jeeny: playfully “Taste that. That’s politics done right — local, honest, sustainable.”

Jack: after trying it, smiling “You make it sound romantic.”

Jeeny: “It is. Food is the most ancient form of love — between people, between earth and body. We just turned it into an industry instead of a relationship.”

Jack: quietly, with a faint sigh “And relationships take effort.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why ‘move more’ isn’t just about exercise — it’s about participation. Movement of body, movement of conscience.”

Host: A delivery truck rumbled by, shaking the ground slightly. Jack looked at the crowd — people carrying bags of vegetables, laughing, arguing about prices. It felt... alive. Real.

Jeeny: “You see that?” gestures to the crowd “That’s what Marion Nestle meant by getting political. People together. Choices made in public, not isolation. Every stall here — a protest against convenience.”

Jack: watching her “You really think eating can save the world?”

Jeeny: smiling softly “No. But it can remind us it’s worth saving.”

Host: The sun climbed higher now, light pouring through the clouds like grace. Jack squinted up, the warmth touching his face.

Jack: quietly “Eat less. Eat better. Move more.” pauses “That last one — ‘get political.’ Maybe that’s the hardest part.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only part that keeps the rest honest.”

Jack: grinning “So what’s next on your revolution menu?”

Jeeny: mock serious “Bread from the local bakery. Maybe lentil stew. And conversation.”

Jack: “The healthiest thing on the list.”

Host: They stopped by the baker’s stall — steam rising from loaves stacked high, golden crusts crackling in the air. Jeeny handed him a piece.

Jeeny: “Here. Eat consciously.”

Jack: taking a bite, surprised by its warmth “You know, for all your speeches, this is damn good bread.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “That’s the point. Good food doesn’t need defending — it defends you.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the market alive in color and motion, Jack and Jeeny framed by the noise of life and the quiet intention behind it. The city pulsed beyond, but here, among the crates and scents and laughter, there was something purer — a reminder that the world can still be shaped by simple acts done with awareness.

And as the crowd moved like a heartbeat through the morning light, Marion Nestle’s words lingered like an aftertaste of truth:

“Eat less. Eat better. Move more. And get political.”

Because in the end,
how we eat is how we live.
And how we live
is the loudest vote
we will ever cast.