I was never a person who was introduced to junk food.

Host: The city was half-awake, its skyline stretched against the gray morning like a tired promise. Steam rose from the street vents, curling into the cold air, carrying the faint scent of coffee, asphalt, and something distinctly human — hunger. Inside a small corner café, Jack sat at a wooden table, a half-eaten bagel before him, crumbs scattered like small confessions. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her green tea, the faint ripples moving like thoughts trying to find stillness.

The radio hummed softly with morning news, but the voices faded beneath the weight of their conversation waiting to begin.

Jeeny: (glancing at his plate) “You know, Ellen Pompeo once said, ‘I was never a person who was introduced to junk food.’”

Jack: (smirking, tearing another piece of the bagel) “Yeah, well, must be nice. Some of us were practically raised by potato chips and vending machines.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “You say that like it’s a badge of honor.”

Jack: “In a way, it is. Junk food is… survival. It’s what you grab when you don’t have time, when you don’t have money, when the world doesn’t give you room to breathe. It’s not a choice — it’s the flavor of working-class life.”

Host: The light from the café’s window slanted across his face, catching the shadow beneath his eyes — a faint reminder of long nights and cheap dinners. Jeeny watched him, her expression tender but firm, like someone trying to clean a wound that won’t quite close.

Jeeny: “I don’t think she meant privilege, Jack. I think she meant… foundation. She was lucky enough to grow up with food that nourished her — not just filled her.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “And what’s the difference? Full is full.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “No. Full is just not hungry. Nourished means alive.”

Host: The barista moved behind the counter, the hiss of milk steam rising like breath. The aroma of fresh bread filled the room, wrapping around them like an invisible comfort.

Jack: “You know what I think? This obsession with food purity — no sugar, no carbs, no processed anything — it’s just guilt disguised as health. The world’s falling apart, and people are counting calories like it’ll save their souls.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “It’s not about purity. It’s about presence. Junk food isn’t evil, but it teaches you to eat without awareness. Fast, mindless, distracted. You don’t just lose health — you lose connection.”

Jack: “Connection to what? My sandwich?”

Jeeny: (gently) “To yourself.”

Host: Her voice was soft but unwavering, like a violin cutting through noise. Jack leaned back, his chair creaking slightly. He watched her as if trying to decide whether she was naïve or unbearably right.

Jack: “You sound like you grew up on organic apples and philosophical salads.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Hardly. But I did grow up in a house where dinner wasn’t just food — it was ritual. My mother used to say, ‘How you eat shows how you live.’ She meant that food was more than fuel — it was a language.”

Jack: “A language, huh? So what does a bag of chips say?”

Jeeny: (without hesitation) “That you’re tired. That you need comfort. That you forgot to rest.”

Host: The rain began outside — soft, hesitant. The window blurred, turning the world into watercolor. For a moment, the café felt suspended in time, like an island untouched by the rushing world.

Jack: “You talk like food is spiritual.”

Jeeny: “It is. You put something into your body three times a day — it becomes you. Every bite is a small conversation between what you need and what you’re ignoring.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “So Ellen Pompeo wasn’t introduced to junk food — and what? That makes her more enlightened?”

Jeeny: “No, it makes her aware. She never had to unlearn numbness.”

Host: The rain thickened, tapping the glass in a slow, steady rhythm. Jack’s eyes softened — a flicker of something like regret passing through.

Jack: “When I was a kid, dinner was whatever we could afford. Canned soup, instant noodles, frozen pizza. My mom worked two jobs. I used to think, one day, when I have money, I’ll eat real food. But now I do… and it doesn’t taste like home.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Because home wasn’t about the food. It was about the struggle that made it sacred.”

Jack: (half-smiling, half-sighing) “So what am I supposed to do? Thank my trauma for my cholesterol?”

Jeeny: (softly) “No. But you can start forgiving it.”

Host: A bus passed outside, splashing through a puddle, the sound breaking their silence like a breath returning to the lungs.

Jeeny: “We talk about junk food like it’s just calories, but it’s really emotion — processed, packaged, and sold back to us. Fast food for a fast world. The slower you eat, the more you feel. Maybe that’s why people can’t slow down. Feeling hurts.”

Jack: (looking out the window) “Yeah. Maybe that’s why I eat standing up.”

Jeeny: (gently) “And why you never taste it.”

Host: The steam from her cup rose in delicate swirls, catching the light like the faint memory of warmth. The rain softened again — a whisper instead of a downpour.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I envy people like Ellen. Not because they had healthy food, but because they had someone who cared enough to give it to them.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “That’s what nourishment really is, Jack. Care disguised as dinner.”

Host: The café was nearly empty now. The barista wiped down tables, the faint sound of a jazz tune humming through the speakers — soft piano, slow saxophone, melancholy and sweet.

Jeeny: “She wasn’t just talking about diet. She was talking about the privilege of awareness — to grow up knowing your body matters, that what you put in it is worth choosing. Most people never get that chance.”

Jack: (rubbing his chin) “You’re saying junk food is a symptom.”

Jeeny: “Of disconnection, yes. Between people and food. Between families and time. Between hunger and heart.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “You make it sound tragic.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because we’re the first generation that’s both overfed and starving.”

Host: Her words hung in the air — raw, quiet, piercing. Jack looked down at the crumbs on his plate, then brushed them away slowly, as if performing a small act of penance.

Jack: “So what do we do? Go back to growing tomatoes on rooftops?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Maybe not tomatoes. But maybe we start by remembering what hunger feels like — real hunger, for life, for care, for meaning. The kind that food can’t fill.”

Host: The rain stopped. A thin beam of sunlight broke through the clouds, spilling across the café floor in golden patches. Jack followed its path with his eyes, then looked back at Jeeny, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

Jack: “Maybe next time I’ll order a salad.”

Jeeny: (playfully) “Not because it’s healthy — because it’s honest.”

Host: They both laughed — not loudly, but deeply, the kind of laughter that heals without noise. The sunlight warmed their table, glinting off the cups, the plates, the small, unfinished crumbs of a life that was always trying to feed itself the best way it could.

And as they sat there, the world outside slowly waking again, it became clear what Ellen Pompeo had truly meant:

Being “never introduced to junk food” wasn’t about privilege —
it was about protection —
from numbness, from neglect, from the quiet hunger that comes not from the stomach,
but from the soul.

And maybe, just maybe, the cure for that kind of hunger was not in what we eat —
but in how deeply we learn to taste the life we already have.