No matter if my dad had to work, or my sister was gone until 7

Host: The kitchen light glowed like a lantern in the evening fog, its yellow warmth spilling across the small apartment. Outside, the city hummed — cars sliding through wet streets, voices echoing from distant balconies. Inside, the smell of rice and garlic floated through the air, mingled with the faint sound of laughter from a television left on low.

Jack sat at the table, his hands folded, his grey eyes lost in the steam rising from a bowl of soup. Jeeny stood by the stove, stirring slowly, her movements gentle, almost ritualistic. There was a peace here — fragile, sacred, like memory made flesh.

Jeeny: “Diana Taurasi once said, ‘No matter if my dad had to work, or my sister was gone until 7, or I had basketball practice until 8, we always ate together. I think that’s a big part of the Hispanic family, the culture. That is key to our existence, really.’”

Jack: “Yeah… sounds sentimental. But times have changed, Jeeny. People don’t have the luxury for family dinners anymore.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about luxury, Jack. It’s about choice. The table isn’t just where we eat — it’s where we remember who we are.”

Host: Jeeny placed a plate of warm tortillas between them. The sizzle of oil faded as she turned off the stove. The soft hum of the fridge filled the quiet, like a heartbeat in the background.

Jack: “You really think sitting around a table changes who we are? The world runs on deadlines, not dinner bells. Families today are connected through texts and screens, not shared meals.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why we’re starving, Jack. Not for food — but for connection. For presence.”

Jack: “Presence doesn’t pay the bills. You know how it is. People work late, commute, grind. Life’s too fast for traditions like that.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not life that’s fast — maybe it’s us who’ve stopped slowing down. We’ve forgotten that the simple act of sitting together is what keeps us human.”

Host: The sound of rain softly tapping against the windowpane filled the room. Jeeny sat down, her brown eyes glinting in the light. Jack looked up, his expression somewhere between skepticism and longing.

Jeeny: “In so many cultures, Jack, the meal is sacred. In Italy, families still gather every Sunday, no matter what. In Mexico, they don’t just eat — they celebrate. In Japan, they bow before the food to say ‘itadakimasu,’ acknowledging the life that sustains theirs. We’ve lost that sense of reverence.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But it’s not always like that. For some people, dinner was fights, silence, or just routine. You talk about it like it’s holy, but it can be just another ritual of obligation.”

Jeeny: “Even in silence, Jack, there’s belonging. Even in fights, there’s proof of love. It’s when there’s nothing — no table, no voice, no laughter — that we truly disappear.”

Host: The clock ticked, slow and steady. Jack picked up a spoon, stirring the soup absently, as if searching for something inside it. The steam rose between them like a ghost of the past.

Jack: “You talk about disappearing… but look around, Jeeny. Families aren’t dying; they’re just evolving. The world’s connected now. We don’t need the same table — we’ve got FaceTime, group chats, memories stored in the cloud.”

Jeeny: “Connection isn’t the same as communion, Jack. Technology gives us contact, not closeness. You can’t taste someone’s laughter through a screen.”

Jack: “But you can reach someone a thousand miles away. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jeeny: “It is. But what about the ones sitting five feet from you — the ones you don’t even look at anymore because your eyes are on a phone? That’s what Taurasi meant — eating together wasn’t about the food, it was about **presence that refuses to vanish.*”

Host: The light flickered. A bus passed outside, its headlights sweeping across their faces, then fading. The air thickened with the scent of cumin and memory.

Jack: “You know, I used to have dinners like that. Every Sunday, my dad would grill outside, even in the winter. He said the smoke was ‘part of the flavor.’ We’d all sit, laugh, argue… and then life just—”

Jeeny: “—got busy?”

Jack: “Yeah. My dad worked nights, I started traveling, my mom… stopped setting the table. I guess it’s just what happens.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s what we allow to happen. Every time we say we’re too busy to sit together, we’re choosing isolation over intimacy. Culture dies one meal at a time.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not with anger, but with grief — the kind that comes from knowing something sacred is fading while the world moves on.

Jack: “So you think eating together saves the world?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not the world. But maybe it saves one soul at a time. That’s enough for me.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, but there was sadness in his eyes — the kind that comes from remembering something you didn’t realize you missed until it was gone.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful about Taurasi’s words? It’s not about perfection. Her dad was working. Her sister was gone. She had practice. Yet they found a way. That’s what culture is — not an ideal, but a commitment.”

Jack: “Commitment to what?”

Jeeny: “To showing up. To saying: no matter how tired, no matter how late — we’ll meet here, at this table, and remember that we belong to something bigger than ourselves.”

Jack: “And you think that’s what keeps people alive?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because when the world falls apart, the only thing left is who’s willing to sit beside you and pass the bread.”

Host: The storm outside intensified, the windows rattling softly. Jack looked down, his reflection shimmering in the soup, distorted but present — like an echo of his younger self, the boy who once believed in togetherness.

Jack: “You know… when you put it like that, I can almost see it. The meaning. The table as more than wood — a kind of altar.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. An altar of the ordinary. Of rice and beans, of stories retold, of hands that reach across silence.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe just someone who remembers.”

Host: The clock struck nine. The rain eased, leaving only the faint tapping of droplets on the balcony railing. The city noise softened, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? All this talk about food, and now I’m starving.”

Jeeny: “Good. Then sit. Eat.”

Jack: “Together?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: She poured him another ladle of soup, the steam curling upward like incense, and he broke a piece of bread, handing it to her without a word. There was no sermon, no speech, just two souls sharing warmth across a small table, while the world outside kept spinning.

In that simple act — that exchange of presence — the noise of the city, the distance of time, the ache of absence — all of it faded.

The camera would pull back slowly now: the window glowing, the rain glistening on the street below, the table a small island of light in a sea of darkened apartments.

And in that quiet glow, you could almost hear it — the heartbeat of culture, the echo of families past, whispering the same truth:

That to eat together is to exist together.