I don't want to spend my life not having good food going into my

Host: The afternoon sun slanted low over the Southern porch, spilling honey-colored light through the branches of a giant magnolia tree. The air shimmered with heat, thick with the scent of butter, sugar, and laughter. Cicadas hummed their slow, electric rhythm — a lazy symphony to the long, golden day.

A weathered table stood between Jack and Jeeny, laden with pies of every kind — apple, pecan, peach, chocolate cream — still warm from the oven. The steam curled upward, carrying the perfume of indulgence and defiance.

Jeeny wiped her hands on a flour-stained towel, her face glowing with mischief.

Jeeny: “Paula Deen once said, ‘I don’t want to spend my life not having good food going into my pie hole. That hole was made for pies.’”

Her eyes danced with light. “Now tell me that isn’t philosophy, Jack.”

Jack sat back, arms crossed, his grey eyes squinting through the haze of sunlight.

Jack: “Philosophy? That’s gluttony dressed in charm.”

Jeeny: “No — that’s gratitude dressed in sugar.”

Host: A gentle breeze rippled through the curtains, carrying with it the scent of cinnamon and the murmur of a world that moved a little slower. Somewhere, a screen door creaked. A dog barked once, then gave up.

Jack picked up a fork, turned it idly between his fingers.

Jack: “You really think food’s that deep? It’s pleasure, not purpose.”

Jeeny: “Pleasure is purpose sometimes. You can’t separate the two. Food isn’t just fuel, Jack — it’s joy, it’s memory, it’s art that dissolves in your mouth.”

Jack: “Or it’s addiction. You can’t build a philosophy out of butter.”

Jeeny: “You can build happiness out of it.”

Host: The light glinted off the metal fork as Jack finally speared a slice of peach pie. He took a small bite — too small to satisfy, but enough to admit curiosity.

Jack: “It’s good,” he said reluctantly.

Jeeny grinned. “That’s not good, Jack. That’s forgiveness baked at 375 degrees.”

Jack: “You always make pleasure sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Food is the great equalizer. Everyone eats, everyone feels. It’s the simplest prayer — and the truest.”

Jack: “You think Paula Deen was saying all that between pie crusts?”

Jeeny: “Of course not. But she was living it. There’s wisdom in simplicity, Jack. Sometimes joy is rebellion — especially in a world that worships restraint.”

Host: The ice cubes clinked softly in Jeeny’s glass of sweet tea. She took a sip, her expression softened by contentment. Jack leaned forward now, elbows on the table, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

Jack: “So you think gluttony is rebellion now?”

Jeeny: “Not gluttony. Celebration. There’s a difference. Gluttony consumes without meaning; celebration savors with gratitude.”

Jack: “You’re splitting hairs.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m kneading dough.”

Host: The sunlight deepened, melting into amber. Dust motes floated like tiny galaxies around them. The pies gleamed — ridiculous, perfect, unapologetic.

Jack: “You know what I think?”

Jeeny: “That you’d prefer a protein shake?”

Jack: “That maybe pleasure’s just another way we distract ourselves from dying. We eat, we drink, we indulge — all to forget the ticking clock.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s how we honor the clock. Every bite says, ‘I’m here. I exist. I feel.’ Death can’t touch that.”

Jack: “Until cholesterol does.”

Jeeny laughed — a warm, unrestrained sound that seemed to make the air itself sweeter.

Jeeny: “You always have to make poetry sound like paperwork.”

Host: The wind rustled the leaves, scattering the aroma of sugar and fruit across the porch. Somewhere down the road, a church bell tolled.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — food is memory. Every flavor carries someone’s story. The pie my mother made the day I graduated. The cornbread my grandmother burned and still served with pride. The stew we ate the night my father lost his job but smiled anyway. Food keeps people alive long after they’re gone.”

Jack: “Memory’s not enough to justify indulgence.”

Jeeny: “It’s not indulgence if it feeds the soul.”

Host: Jack took another bite — this time slower, thoughtful. The crust crumbled, the filling lingered. He closed his eyes briefly, and for a moment, even his logic fell silent.

Jack: “You know,” he said after a pause, “there’s something primitive about it — eating, sharing, the ritual of it. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not just food.”

Jeeny: “It’s communion.”

Jack: “Without the church?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The kitchen is the first temple.”

Host: The fireflies began to appear — small, flickering souls of light drifting through the twilight. The air was alive with quiet beauty, the kind that only summer knows.

Jack: “You think pleasure can be sacred?”

Jeeny: “I think denying pleasure is a sin.”

Jack: “Now you sound like Epicurus.”

Jeeny: “Epicurus never baked a pie.”

Jack: “Fair point.”

Host: They both laughed, softly, the kind of laughter that eases something unspoken. The plates between them were half-empty now, the table covered in crumbs and contentment.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Paula meant?”

Jack: “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “That joy doesn’t need justification. That you don’t have to apologize for delight. That every human being deserves a slice of sweetness in their short, uncertain life.”

Jack: “And that hole,” he said, gesturing to his mouth, “was made for pies.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because it was made for living.”

Host: The last light of the day fell across their faces, warm and forgiving. The sky burned pink and gold. Jack leaned back, pie forgotten, a faint smile softening the usual edge of his voice.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the pursuit of happiness begins with dessert.”

Jeeny: “Always. Because if you can taste joy, even for a moment, then you’ve already won against time.”

Host: The night thickened, full of stars and silence. The cicadas sang on. Somewhere, a pie cooled quietly on a windowsill — a symbol of defiance, of gratitude, of life refusing to starve its own wonder.

And as Jack and Jeeny sat surrounded by the scent of sugar and memory, the world seemed simple again — full, delicious, and fleeting.

Because maybe, as Paula Deen unknowingly preached,
philosophy doesn’t always live in books or temples.
Sometimes, it’s found in a bite of something warm,
in the laughter that follows,
and in the holy truth that the soul, like the mouth,
was made — unapologetically — for joy.