I probably spend more on food than a lot of people, and I feel

Host: The afternoon sun hung low over the city, pouring amber light through the tall windows of a crowded urban market. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, herbs, and the faint sweetness of ripe tomatoes. A violinist played softly near the corner, his music weaving through the chatter of customers haggling over prices and produce.

Jack stood by a wooden stall stacked high with apples and carrots, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes scanning the chalkboard prices with a faint look of disbelief. Jeeny approached, a woven bag over her shoulder, filled with greens, cheese, and a loaf of rustic bread that still steamed faintly.

The light caught her hair, turning it almost bronze.

Jeeny: “Michael Pollan once said, ‘I probably spend more on food than a lot of people, and I feel good about the whole food chain I’m supporting when I’m doing it. But even I have to remind myself—I’m always complaining about the prices at the farmer’s market.’”

Host: Jack raised an eyebrow, half amused, half annoyed, as the violin trailed off into the distance.

Jack: dryly “Ah yes. The poetry of guilt. Pay too much and feel noble. Complain and feel human.”

Jeeny: smiling “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that line.”

Jack: “I’ve lived it. You ever seen how much a pound of kale costs here? Makes you wonder if the farmers are selling vegetables or virtue.”

Host: His tone was sardonic, but his eyes betrayed something softer — the quiet resentment of a man who understood value, but hated to pay for it.

Jeeny: “It’s not about virtue, Jack. It’s about connection. When I buy from them, I’m not just buying food — I’m buying into a story. Soil, hands, sunlight, rain… all of it.”

Jack: snorts “That’s a lovely story. But stories don’t pay rent. The world runs on numbers, not poetry. You can romanticize the food chain all you want, but at the end of the day, someone’s cashing in.”

Jeeny: “And someone’s starving because we choose cheapness over care.”

Host: The sound of her voice cut through the crowd like a clean wind. A child laughed nearby, chasing a rolling orange, and for a moment, even Jack’s cynicism seemed to soften.

Jack: “You think buying a few organic cucumbers fixes that?”

Jeeny: “No. But it honors something. It says we still believe in the hands that feed us.”

Jack: “And the hands that charge us double?”

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe they’re charging us what it really costs?”

Host: Jack picked up an apple, turning it slowly in his hand. The skin was streaked with red and gold, imperfect but alive. He bit into it, chewing thoughtfully.

Jack: “You know, Pollan’s right about one thing. Everyone wants to feel righteous until they see the price tag. We say we value sustainability — until it costs us comfort.”

Jeeny: “That’s not hypocrisy, Jack. That’s human nature. But awareness is the first step.”

Jack: “Awareness doesn’t fill stomachs.”

Jeeny: “Neither does ignorance.”

Host: A moment passed — still, tense, filled with the quiet hum of people passing by, oblivious to the moral duel unfolding beside the apple crates.

Jeeny: softly now “You ever think about where your food comes from?”

Jack: “Sure. The grocery store.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Before that. The field. The seed. The person who wakes at dawn to pick it.”

Jack: shrugs “I try not to. Guilt’s not a good condiment.”

Jeeny: “It’s not guilt. It’s gratitude.”

Host: Her eyes gleamed with something deeper — a kind of reverence for the mundane, a sense that every tomato carried a story worth saving. Jack looked at her, skeptical but curious.

Jack: “You sound like one of those people who names their basil plants.”

Jeeny: grinning “Maybe. But at least I know what I’m eating.”

Jack: “What’s the point? The world’s system is broken. Agribusiness wins. Local farmers lose. We’re ants trying to move a boulder.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But ants can move mountains if they work together.”

Host: A gust of wind rustled the canvas awning above them, scattering a few leaves across the table. The vendor, an old man with sun-creased skin, smiled faintly as he weighed a bundle of herbs for another customer.

Jeeny watched him, then turned back to Jack.

Jeeny: “Do you know what that man told me last week? He said, ‘Every time someone buys from me, I feel seen.’”

Jack: quietly “Seen?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not as a supplier. As a person.”

Host: Jack’s eyes drifted toward the vendor. He watched the man’s hands — rough, strong, moving with the rhythm of someone who’d spent a lifetime coaxing life from dirt.

Jack: “You’re saying I owe him empathy?”

Jeeny: “No. Just honesty. Buy what you can afford. But know what it costs — not just in dollars, but in lives.”

Host: The music started again, a new tune — slower, melancholic. The sunlight shifted, turning golden things into bronze. A boy offered samples of honey; a woman laughed as she tasted it. Life pulsed gently around them, unaware of the quiet war between pragmatism and principle.

Jack: “You ever think Pollan’s just comforting himself? Like, yeah, I spend too much, but at least it means I’m morally superior?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even that’s better than not thinking at all.”

Jack: leaning against the counter, thoughtful now “You think consciousness can change the system?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has. Look at what happened with plastic bans, fair trade, the slow food movement. They all started with someone who decided to pay attention.”

Jack: “You really believe awareness can outprice greed?”

Jeeny: “It already has — in some hearts.”

Host: The crowd began to thin as the sun dipped lower. The vendors started packing up, their voices tired but content. The market began to smell of twilight — part bread, part rain, part memory.

Jack took another bite of the apple, slower this time.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. That old man — he doesn’t look like he’s complaining. He looks… proud.”

Jeeny: “Because he’s not selling a product, Jack. He’s sharing what he made. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “And we complain about the price of his pride.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Exactly.”

Host: A single sunbeam broke through the clouds, falling on the vendor’s table, making the apples glow like small lanterns. Jack stared at them for a moment, as if seeing fruit for the first time.

Jack: slowly “Maybe we’re not paying too much. Maybe we’ve just forgotten what real things are worth.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re starting to sound like Pollan.”

Jack: smirks “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”

Host: She laughed, the sound light and warm, carried away by the last breeze of day. The violinist packed up, the notes of his final song still echoing faintly between the stalls.

Jeeny: “Come on. Help me carry these.”

Jack: “Only if I get one of those apples.”

Jeeny: “You already took one.”

Jack: “Then I’ll take another. For the cause.”

Host: She rolled her eyes, but smiled as she handed him the bag. They walked through the closing market, their footsteps soft against the stone path, their silhouettes framed by the golden afterglow of the setting sun.

In the quiet that followed, the city seemed to breathe slower — as if remembering something simple and sacred: that every meal, every act of nourishment, is a kind of faith.

Host: And as Jack bit into another apple, he didn’t complain. He just nodded, tasting the price — and the worth — of what it meant to be connected.