I have had a problem with food intolerance since I was eight.

Host: The evening lay quiet over the small kitchen, lit only by the golden flicker of a single lamp above the counter. The air smelled faintly of chamomile tea and toasted oats — simple comforts in a world too full of noise. Outside, the wind moved softly through the trees, the kind of wind that always seems to be thinking.

On the countertop sat an open notebook, half-covered in crumbs and scribbled recipes, and beside it, Jack sat hunched over a steaming mug. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his grey eyes fixed on the stove, where a pot of soup simmered in quiet defiance.

Across from him, Jeeny perched on a stool, her hair pulled back, her hands cradling a bowl of rice and vegetables. The warmth from the stove made her cheeks glow, her expression gentle but alert — like someone who knew the difference between empathy and pity.

Jeeny: “Rachel Riley once said, ‘I have had a problem with food intolerance since I was eight.’”

Host: Her voice was soft — not quoting, but remembering. The room felt smaller as her words settled, like they had weight beyond their simplicity.

Jack: (stirring the pot) “Funny thing about intolerance — it sounds medical, but it’s really just a daily negotiation with your own body.”

Jeeny: “And a truce you never quite win.”

Jack: “Exactly. Every meal’s a risk. Every bite, a question.”

Host: The soup bubbled softly — the sound of effort, of patience, of a man trying to understand himself one spoonful at a time.

Jeeny: “You’ve been careful lately. Avoiding things. Writing down ingredients. Measuring instead of tasting.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “When your body starts treating food like an enemy, you learn diplomacy fast.”

Jeeny: “And does it help?”

Jack: (pausing) “Some days. Other days, I just miss not thinking about it.”

Host: He ladled the soup into a bowl, set it down between them. The steam rose like memory — familiar and strange at once.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Intolerance isn’t just physical. It’s emotional, too.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “You mean resentment dressed as biology?”

Jeeny: “No. I mean the way your body remembers pain. You stop trusting it. You start fearing what used to be pleasure.”

Jack: “That’s not far off.”

Jeeny: “It’s the same with people, Jack. You get hurt enough times, you start becoming intolerant to love.”

Host: The spoon clinked against the bowl. For a moment, the only sound was the rain beginning outside — steady, rhythmic, forgiving.

Jack: “You’re saying food and feelings are the same thing?”

Jeeny: “Aren’t they? Both meant to nourish. Both capable of making you sick.”

Jack: “And both impossible to give up.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: He took a slow sip of his soup, eyes distant, thoughtful.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to bake bread on Sundays. The smell filled the house. But one day, I couldn’t eat it anymore — wheat made me sick. She looked so disappointed, like I was rejecting her, not the loaf.”

Jeeny: “It wasn’t the bread she was mourning. It was the ritual.”

Jack: “Yeah. It stopped being love and started being calculation — this much rice, that much almond flour, no butter, no milk. A science experiment instead of a meal.”

Jeeny: “And still, you cook.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Because some part of me still believes food can forgive me.”

Host: The light from the lamp shimmered on the edge of the bowl, golden and soft. Jeeny watched him, her expression thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how much we take for granted — being able to eat, to taste, to share a meal without fear?”

Jack: “It’s one of those invisible privileges. Like breathing without noticing.”

Jeeny: “Or loving without breaking.”

Jack: “Or trusting your body not to betray you.”

Jeeny: “But it’s not betrayal, Jack. It’s communication. The body’s just louder than we like.”

Host: He nodded, stirring his soup absently, as if tracing the truth through the surface.

Jack: “You know, I used to think intolerance was weakness. Like I was fragile. But the more I live with it, the more I realize — it’s endurance. Every day, you find a new way to survive what used to sustain you.”

Jeeny: “That’s resilience, not fragility. You didn’t lose strength; you adapted it.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is. You’re not fighting indulgence — you’re fighting memory.”

Host: She took a small spoonful of her rice and smiled softly.

Jeeny: “Rachel Riley probably meant something medical when she said that, but I think she was also saying something bigger — that our bodies keep stories we can’t erase. And food is one of them.”

Jack: “You think she meant fear?”

Jeeny: “No. Awareness. Knowing that what you take in — food, words, people — changes you. Sometimes it heals. Sometimes it hurts.”

Jack: “So the cure is knowing?”

Jeeny: “Knowing, and forgiving.”

Host: Her eyes softened as she said it, her voice steady but full of quiet care.

Jeeny: “Forgive your body for not being what it used to be. Forgive the past meals that made you sick. Forgive the hunger that turned into fear.”

Jack: “And forgive myself for still craving what hurts.”

Jeeny: “Especially that.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, its sound soothing, rhythmic, like applause from an unseen sky. The smell of soup filled the room, warm and real.

Jack: “You know, there’s something poetic about it. This whole dance between nourishment and rejection.”

Jeeny: “There always is. The body teaches what philosophy can’t — that limits aren’t punishment, they’re translation.”

Jack: “Translation of what?”

Jeeny: “Of what you can bear.”

Host: He nodded, quietly. The spoon rested in his bowl, steam rising like an exhale.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what healing really is — learning to love what remains safe.”

Jeeny: “And not resenting what doesn’t.”

Host: The two sat in silence for a while, the soft rain outside blending with the sound of breath, the hum of a world that had slowed down enough to listen.

Jack: “You know, I used to dream of eating without thinking. Now I just want to live without fearing.”

Jeeny: “You’re getting there.”

Jack: “You think so?”

Jeeny: “I know so. You’re still sitting at the table.”

Host: He smiled, the first unguarded one of the night. The kind of smile that carries relief — the soft acknowledgment of survival.

And as the rain eased and the soup cooled, the truth of Rachel Riley’s words lingered in the small kitchen:

That intolerance — to food, to pain, to the fragile nature of life itself — isn’t weakness, but awareness.

It’s the quiet art of living carefully,
the discipline of gentleness,
the courage to keep tasting the world,
even when it doesn’t always love you back.