I'm sure I've changed my mind about something. Inevitably, when

Host: The kitchen was bathed in a soft amber glow, the kind that falls from low-hanging lights after dinner — warm, forgiving, alive with the perfume of memory. Outside, the rain tapped gently against the window, each drop blurring the reflections of two figures sitting across a wooden table, surrounded by the quiet symphony of dishes cooling and wine breathing.

The air carried the scent of garlic, bread, and time — that slow seasoning of shared conversation and years of becoming.

Jack sat back in his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a glass of red wine cradled loosely in his hand. He looked relaxed, but his eyes — sharp, gray, restless — betrayed the mind that never stopped revising itself. Jeeny, opposite him, was barefoot, her dark hair falling casually over one shoulder. She traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip, lost in the quiet rhythm of thought.

On the counter, a half-eaten slice of pumpkin pie waited, humble and fragrant — a nostalgic offering from a younger self to an older one.

Jeeny: “Ruth Bader Ginsburg once said, ‘I’m sure I’ve changed my mind about something. Inevitably, when we grow up — as we get more experience and wiser. Well, I’ve changed my mind about some food that I didn’t like when I was young.’”

Jack: smiles faintly “Trust Ginsburg to turn changing your mind into a moral act — even about food.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “That’s what I love about it. It’s humble, human. She’s not talking about a grand philosophical reversal — just peas and principles.”

Jack: leans forward, curious “And yet, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Growth doesn’t arrive with trumpets. It sneaks in quietly — like learning to enjoy broccoli.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. The taste changes because the taster changes.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “So you’re saying wisdom is a matter of palate?”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. The older we get, the more we learn to savor what we once spat out — food, ideas, people.”

Host: The rain outside thickened slightly, the droplets tracing delicate rivers down the glass. The kitchen light caught them, making them shimmer like tiny truths falling from the sky.

Jack turned his wine glass slowly, watching the liquid move, thinking. Jeeny waited, the silence between them not heavy but rich, like the pause between movements of a symphony.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always distrusted people who never change their mind. It’s like meeting a statue that can talk.”

Jeeny: “Because certainty is comfortable.”

Jack: grinning faintly “Comfort’s overrated. I’d rather be wrong and awake than right and asleep.”

Jeeny: “That’s easy to say when your wrongness doesn’t cost you much.”

Jack: studying her “And what does it cost you, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: after a pause “Certainty is the scaffolding some people need just to stand. Take it away too soon, and they collapse before they learn how to rebuild themselves.”

Jack: “So you’d rather they live surrounded by lies?”

Jeeny: shakes her head “No. I’d rather they learn to see truth not as a mountain to climb once, but a landscape that shifts. Every horizon changes when you start walking.”

Jack: quietly “That’s beautiful. And infuriating.”

Jeeny: smiling “Truth usually is.”

Host: The clock ticked softly on the wall — steady, indifferent. The smell of the pie seemed to grow stronger, mingling with the rain and the hum of the refrigerator, the domestic grounding of their philosophical flight.

Jack stood and went to the counter, cutting two slices. He placed one before Jeeny, who looked up at him with a smile that carried both gratitude and challenge.

Jack: sitting down again “You think people can really change their minds, or just learn to hide their contradictions better?”

Jeeny: “Oh, we change — but it’s rarely neat. More like sediment shifting in a riverbed. The old layers never disappear; they just settle deeper.”

Jack: “So when Ginsburg said she changed her mind about food, she was admitting that growth doesn’t erase the past — it just digests it.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “Perfect metaphor, Jack. Philosophical digestion.”

Jack: “Maybe wisdom is just a well-trained stomach — knowing what to keep, what to let go.”

Jeeny: “And what to taste again, because maybe you judged it too soon.”

Jack: looks at her, amused “You mean like forgiveness.”

Jeeny: meeting his eyes “Exactly like forgiveness.”

Host: The rain slowed. A single bolt of lightning illuminated the kitchen for an instant — the moment frozen: two souls, two slices of pie, a table filled with crumbs and conversation.

The thunder came late, soft and dignified, as if applauding their honesty.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to think changing your mind was weakness. Like it meant you didn’t stand for anything.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: shrugs, thoughtful “Now I think standing still is what makes you fall.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Growth isn’t betrayal. It’s evolution.”

Jack: quietly “But people hate watching others evolve. It reminds them they’re standing still.”

Jeeny: “Which is why progress always offends those who’ve stopped tasting the world.”

Jack: smiles faintly, lifting his fork “So change your mind, change your flavor.”

Jeeny: laughs, raising hers in return “To the wisdom of appetite.”

Host: The forks clinked softly against ceramic. The pie was sweet, smooth — the kind of sweetness that lingers longer than you expect, not loud but persuasive.

For a while, they said nothing. The moment itself seemed to speak: about youth, about aging, about how every belief once felt like a fortress and later turned out to be a tent.

Host: The rain stopped. The air smelled clean again, rinsed of certainty.

In that silence, Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s words seemed to float above the table — not just about food, but about the courage to become someone new:

To change your mind is not to lose it.
It is to honor it — to allow thought to breathe.

The mind that never revises
is not wise; it is starving.

Growth is not betrayal —
it is taste refined by time.

Even the tongue learns what the heart once refused.
Even the soul learns to swallow what it once feared.

Host: The light flickered once, dimming into quiet amber.

Jack looked at his empty plate.
Jeeny smiled softly, eyes gentle but alive.

And for the first time that evening,
they said nothing more —
because some truths,
like flavors,
are meant to be savored,
not argued.