If we as a society are willing to have a preference for organic

Host: The sky stretched wide and amber, the last light of day bleeding into the folds of a quiet valley. The farmhouse porch creaked under the slow rhythm of the wind. Somewhere beyond the rows of corn and wildflowers, a tractor hummed its tired farewell to the sun. Jack sat on the porch step, his hands dusty, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Jeeny leaned against the railing, her dress speckled with the same earth that clung to her bare feet.

The air smelled of soil, woodsmoke, and a hint of rain — the kind that promises more than it delivers.

Jeeny: “Robert Patterson once said — ‘If we as a society are willing to have a preference for organic food, the farmer can pass on the savings.’ Do you believe that, Jack?”

Jack: (exhales smoke slowly) “I believe it’s a nice thought. But thoughts don’t plow fields. People like the idea of organic — they just don’t want to pay for it.”

Host: The cigarette ember flared, casting a brief glow across his face, carving his features into rough lines of weariness and skepticism.

Jeeny: “But that’s just it — if more people chose organic, the cost would fall. The farmer wouldn’t bear the burden alone. It’s a cycle of choice. A collective will.”

Jack: “A collective illusion, maybe. People say they want purity, but they still reach for the cheap stuff. The world runs on convenience, not conscience.”

Host: A soft breeze brushed the curtains through the open door, carrying the faint hum of distant crickets. The sky deepened to bruised purple.

Jeeny: “You always see the rot before the root, don’t you? There are farmers out there — small ones — growing real food, soil-fed, not factory-fed. And people are starting to notice. Farmers’ markets, community gardens — they’re changing things.”

Jack: “Yeah? You think the markets in the city are going to save the planet? Half those people buy organic kale, then drive home in SUVs burning premium gas. That’s not change — that’s performance.”

Jeeny: “It’s a beginning. Every choice counts, Jack. Even hypocrisy starts with recognition.”

Host: Her voice carried a quiet fervor, the kind that trembles not from anger, but from belief. The moon was rising now, pale and patient, over the sleeping fields.

Jack: “Belief doesn’t keep farms afloat. I grew up near one, remember? My uncle worked eighteen-hour days — pesticide-free, ethical, all that — and still lost the land because the market didn’t care. You can’t eat integrity when the bank calls in your loan.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And yet, people like him built the soil the rest of us stand on.”

Jack: “And people like him get buried under it, too.”

Host: The wind shifted, colder now. The fields swayed in a slow, mournful rhythm. The stars blinked awake one by one, like cautious witnesses.

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “I sound realistic.”

Jeeny: “Realism without hope is just despair wearing logic’s clothes.”

Jack: (chuckles dryly) “That sounds like something you’d paint on a protest sign.”

Jeeny: “And hold it high, too.”

Host: Her smile cracked the tension, but only briefly. Beneath it lingered a kind of defiance — the kind born not from innocence, but from necessity.

Jeeny: “Jack, organic isn’t about trends. It’s about returning. About remembering we’re part of something bigger. The earth gives, and we’ve been taking without thought for too long. ‘Passing on the savings’ — it’s not just about money. It’s about value, about healing the transaction between humans and nature.”

Jack: “Healing? You think a few pesticide-free tomatoes are gonna fix what we’ve done? Oceans full of plastic, skies full of carbon, and you’re talking about healing?”

Jeeny: “I’m talking about choice. About direction. You can’t turn a river overnight, but you can shift its current.”

Host: Her eyes burned like embers, reflecting the light of the lantern between them. The flame trembled in the breeze, fragile but alive.

Jack: “You ever notice how every idealist ends up exhausted? History’s full of them — the ones who believed people could change their habits, their appetites. Look at Gandhi, look at Rachel Carson. They shook the world, sure — but it barely stayed awake.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. Carson woke the world to the poison in its veins. Without her, we’d still be spraying DDT like perfume. Change doesn’t stay awake forever — it has to be shaken again and again. That’s our job.”

Host: The wind rose sharply, scattering a few leaves across the porch. Jack’s cigarette burned down to the filter. He dropped it, crushed it beneath his boot.

Jack: “And what if people don’t want to be shaken anymore? What if they’re too comfortable?”

Jeeny: “Then comfort will be their coffin.”

Host: The words struck like quiet thunder. The night seemed to hold its breath. Even the crickets paused.

Jack: (after a long silence) “You sound like you believe the world can be saved by farmers.”

Jeeny: “Not by farmers alone. By the people who believe food should nourish more than bodies — who understand that when we buy from the earth, we either honor it or steal from it.”

Jack: “You make it sound like every grocery trip is a moral battle.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every dollar is a vote, Jack. Every choice plants a seed — whether it grows poison or promise, that’s up to us.”

Host: Her voice softened. The flame flickered, smaller now, yet somehow more certain.

Jack: “You really think people can change their hunger?”

Jeeny: “We’ve done it before. We stopped buying blood diamonds. We stopped whaling. Slowly, painfully — but we did. Humanity’s clumsy, but not hopeless.”

Jack: “So you’d trade convenience for conscience?”

Jeeny: “Every time.”

Host: A pause — deep and full, like the earth itself was listening. The stars stretched wide across the sky, and the faint smell of rain teased the edges of the wind.

Jack: (quietly) “You always make it sound simple. But it’s not.”

Jeeny: “I know. But it’s worth it.”

Host: Jack turned his eyes toward the fields — endless rows vanishing into darkness, each furrow like a heartbeat frozen mid-thought. He inhaled, slow and deliberate, as if drawing something deeper than air.

Jack: “Maybe Patterson was right after all. Maybe if society cared enough, the farmer wouldn’t be the one starving.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Exactly. The moment we stop treating real food as luxury — that’s when we start to heal.”

Host: The lantern flame steadied. The night grew still again, the air calm, the earth beneath them humming with its quiet, eternal rhythm.

Jack: “You really believe we can turn it around?”

Jeeny: “Only if we stop seeing the world as a store, and start seeing it as a garden.”

Host: The camera would linger there — two silhouettes framed against the vast field, the stars pulsing above, the faint sound of wind through the corn like a whispered hymn.

The rain finally came — soft, cleansing, almost tender. It pattered against the porch, the earth, their skin.

Jack looked up, eyes closed, a weary smile breaking across his face.

Jack: “Guess it’s time to start planting differently.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And this time, let’s make sure what grows feeds everyone.”

Host: And as the rain fell steady and true, the earth beneath them seemed to breathe — not in sorrow, but in promise. The scene faded, the fields glistening under a new, wet light — as if the world, for just one breath, remembered what gratitude felt like.

End.