Our typical Western diet is full of inflammatory fats - saturated

Host:
The evening light had the color of burnished brass, settling over a modern kitchen that looked like a laboratory for flavor — all steel counters, clean lines, and the faint hum of machines designed to make the act of eating feel like science disguised as art.

Steam curled from a pot of quinoa, a blender whirred faintly, and the air smelled faintly of turmeric, roasted peppers, and the quiet pride of self-improvement.

Jack stood by the stove, his sleeves rolled, his grey eyes skeptical, his hands idle on the counter. Jeeny moved with purpose, slicing avocados, drizzling olive oil, her gestures calm and precise — as if each motion were a form of meditation.

Jeeny:
(brightly, reciting as though quoting a gospel verse)
“Mark Hyman once said: ‘Our typical Western diet is full of inflammatory fats — saturated fats, trans fats, too many omega-6, inflammatory, processed vegetable oils like soy and corn oils. These increase IGF-1 and stimulate pimple follicles.’”
(She glances up, smiling at Jack.)
“It sounds clinical, but he’s right. We’re literally feeding our chaos.”

Jack:
(snorts) “Chaos needs flavor too, Jeeny. If humans weren’t meant to eat fat, butter wouldn’t melt so perfectly on toast.”

Jeeny:
(laughing softly) “That’s not an argument, that’s a confession.”

Jack:
(grinning) “Fine, I’ll confess again — I don’t trust any diet that has an acronym in it. IGF, LDL, HDL — it all sounds like bureaucrats telling my stomach what to believe.”

Host:
A pause hung between them, filled with the rhythm of chopping, the clink of knives, the faint music of domestic philosophy. The evening sun filtered through glass jars, glinting off grains and spices, turning the kitchen into a cathedral of cleanliness and contradiction.

Jeeny:
(earnest, wiping her hands) “But it’s not about acronyms, Jack. It’s about awareness. Our bodies are inflammation factories because we’ve forgotten what real food feels like.”

Jack:
(smirking) “Oh, I know what real food feels like. It feels like guilt on a Sunday morning.”

Jeeny:
(sighing, shaking her head) “You make everything cynical. Don’t you ever feel like your body’s trying to tell you something?”

Jack:
“Constantly. Usually something like: ‘Pass the salt.’”

Host:
Jeeny laughed, but there was an undertone of frustration, the kind that comes from believing deeply in something and watching someone dodge it with wit. The knife glinted, her movements crisp, controlled, the cutting board turning into a battlefield of greens and conviction.

Jeeny:
(softly, but with intent) “You think this is about being trendy. It’s not. It’s about how every meal you eat is either healing you or hurting you. We’re taught that convenience is freedom — but it’s addiction disguised as culture.”

Jack:
(folding his arms) “And what’s the alternative? A life of kale sermons? Jeeny, not everyone can find transcendence in a salad.”

Jeeny:
(grinning) “That’s because you still think salad is a punishment. Food isn’t about denial — it’s about respect. You can’t claim to love life while feeding yourself poison.”

Jack:
(quietly, with a spark of sincerity) “And you can’t call it living if every bite feels like a moral test.”

Host:
The air thickened, the sun dipped, and the room shifted from gold to blue, the light colder, more honest. The steam from the stove rose like ghosts of dinners past — a thousand meals eaten out of boredom, out of loneliness, out of the quiet need to fill what can’t be filled.

Jeeny:
(softer now) “You know what I think, Jack? I think half our diseases come from pretending food is only physical. It’s emotional. You can eat the cleanest plate in the world and still be starving.”

Jack:
(after a long pause) “You mean starving for meaning.”

Jeeny:
(nods) “Exactly. We treat food like fuel, but it’s a language. Every bite is a sentence — you either speak healing or destruction.”

Host:
For a moment, Jack said nothing. He watched her hands, the way she plated the food, every detail intentional, yet unpretentious — the work of someone who didn’t want perfection, just presence.

He picked up a fork, examined the meal — a bowl of grains, greens, and roasted peppers, the kind of thing he’d once have mocked as “rabbit food.”
But the smell, the color, the quiet hum of care that seemed to emanate from it — it was disarming.

Jack:
(carefully) “You know, for all your talk of inflammation, you’ve got a strange talent for making things... peaceful.”

Jeeny:
(smiles gently) “Peace is an acquired taste.”

Jack:
(tasting a bite) “So is quinoa.”

Jeeny:
(laughing) “True. But look at you — you’re already adapting.”

Host:
The laughter softened into silence, the kind that feels earned, like the pause between heartbeats when something new begins to settle inside you.
The city lights blinked through the window, and the kitchen, once clinical, now felt alive — the air thick with steam, spice, and understanding.

Jack:
(thoughtfully) “You know, maybe Mark Hyman’s right — we eat like we’re immortal. We treat our bodies like rental cars and expect them to run forever.”

Jeeny:
(quietly) “Exactly. And when they break down, we act surprised. But it’s not about fear, Jack. It’s about gratitude — the daily kind. Every meal is a chance to say thank you.”

Jack:
(nods slowly) “So health isn’t a rulebook — it’s a relationship.”

Jeeny:
(smiling) “Yes. A romance, even — one most of us keep sabotaging.”

Jack:
(half-grinning) “Then maybe it’s time I start flirting with my vegetables.”

Jeeny:
(laughing, shaking her head) “That’s the spirit. Start with respect, and the rest will follow.”

Host:
They ate quietly, the sound of forks against plates soft and steady. The rain began to fall outside — slow, cleansing, persistent — and the light reflected on their faces like a shared prayer.

The kitchen, once cold and clinical, was now warm, alive, a place of reconnection.

Jack, for the first time, didn’t reach for salt or sarcasm. He simply breathed, tasted, listened — not just to the food, but to the small truth that Jeeny had cooked into it.

Host (closing):
In the quiet glow of that kitchen, beneath the hum of machines and the whisper of rain, they discovered what Mark Hyman meant:
that every choice we make at the table is a conversation with our own survival —
and that true nourishment isn’t found in cutting out fat or carbs,
but in learning how to feed the body without starving the soul.

And so they ate — slowly, gratefully —
tasting not just their meal,
but the fragile, beautiful act of being alive.