Soul food is find the most healthy food you can get and make it

Host: The evening sky hung heavy over the city, its bruised purple clouds stitched with faint gold where the sun fought to linger. Down a narrow street lined with flickering neon signs, a small diner pulsed with the hum of old jazz and the soft clinking of cutlery.

The air was thick with the scent of fried oil, butter, and spice — the perfume of comfort and consequence.

Jack sat at the corner booth, a plate of steaming collard greens in front of him, their green now drowning in oil. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, watching the steam rise like the ghost of a prayer.

Outside, rain whispered against the windows, tracing lines down the glass like tears that refused to fall.

Jeeny: “You know what Eric Adams said once? ‘Soul food is finding the most healthy food you can get and make it as toxic as possible.’”

Jack: grins faintly “That’s brutally honest. And accurate. We take what’s pure and twist it until it kills us — physically, emotionally, morally.”

Jeeny: “But we call it love. We call it tradition. We say it’s comfort.”

Jack: stabs a fork into the greens “Comfort’s just another word for self-deception. The same way sugar’s another word for poison.”

Host: A neon light flickered red and blue over their faces, casting alternating halos of warmth and cold. Jack’s eyes were like flint, sparking with quiet disdain; Jeeny’s glowed with something softer — compassion, maybe, or sorrow.

The music faded to a slow blues, the singer’s voice rough and tender, like a confession whispered too late.

Jeeny: “But isn’t there beauty in that contradiction? In making something dangerous taste so sweet? It’s not just food, Jack. It’s history. It’s survival turned ritual. When our ancestors had nothing but scraps, they made those scraps sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred doesn’t mean healthy. Survival isn’t the same as living. There’s a fine line between honoring the past and being buried by it.”

Jeeny: “You can’t talk about soul food without talking about soul. It’s the memory of resilience, the flavor of pain transformed into something beautiful.”

Jack: leans forward, voice sharp “Pain doesn’t become beautiful just because you’ve seasoned it well. You can drizzle nostalgia on dysfunction all you want — it’s still killing you.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming on the roof like a heartbeat trying to break free. A waitress passed, her tray trembling with the weight of plates slick with gravy, the smell of salt and regret trailing behind her.

The neon flickered again — red, blue, red, blue — the colors of conflict and truth.

Jeeny: “You always see everything in black and white, don’t you? You forget that people need pleasure to survive. A meal isn’t just calories — it’s memory, it’s healing, it’s home.”

Jack: “Healing? You call addiction healing? Look at obesity rates, diabetes, heart failure — it’s not healing, it’s hiding. We’re drowning in butter and pretending it’s love.”

Jeeny: “And yet, for some people, that plate is all they have left of their family. The recipe their grandmother taught them. The only inheritance of joy they could hold onto.”

Jack: quietly, his fork clinking against the plate “And what good is an inheritance that shortens your life?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about the length of life, Jack. It’s about the warmth of it.”

Host: The light dimmed as the clouds thickened, the diner bathed in a soft, melancholy glow. A few customers murmured in low tones; a radio in the corner whispered a sermon from a distant station — something about temptation and choice.

The word hung in the air, between them: choice.

Jack: “So you’re saying the poison doesn’t matter, as long as it comes with love?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying love changes the meaning of the poison. It doesn’t make it harmless — but it makes it human.”

Jack: “That’s the kind of thinking that keeps people sick. In body and in mind.”

Jeeny: “And your way — what is it? Starve the body to feed the intellect? Strip every meal of warmth, every memory of flavor, just to say you lived clean? That’s not living, Jack. That’s surviving on theory.”

Jack: snaps “At least theory doesn’t clog arteries!”

Jeeny: leans forward, fire in her voice “And at least love doesn’t leave people hollow!”

Host: The rain thundered now, shaking the windows, swallowing their voices for a moment. A flash of lightning illuminated their faces — hers wet with emotion, his rigid, a muscle twitching in his jaw like a suppressed storm.

For a long moment, they just breathed — both aware of how easily the heart could become both battleground and victim.

Jack: softening, almost whispering “I’m not saying to erase culture. I’m saying to protect it — by evolving it. By refusing to make the same mistakes because they taste good.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t there danger in sanitizing it too much? You turn it into something sterile — something that’s no longer alive. Culture isn’t meant to be clean. It’s meant to be lived in — messy, flavorful, imperfect.”

Jack: “There’s a difference between messy and self-destructive, Jeeny. Between adding spice and adding slow death.”

Jeeny: quietly, tracing her finger on the rim of her mug “Maybe. But maybe the poison was never just the food.”

Jack: “What do you mean?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s the shame. The way we condemn people for finding joy in what little they have. Maybe it’s not the butter that’s killing us, Jack — maybe it’s guilt.”

Host: A heavy silence settled, thick as the smell of fried onions and memory. Jack’s eyes dropped to his plate — the greens now cold, the oil congealed like forgotten hope.

Outside, the rain began to ease. The sound softened, like forgiveness arriving late but still welcomed.

Jack: “You think guilt is the poison?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. People already feel less — poorer, smaller, unseen. Then they’re told even their comfort is wrong. The very thing that reminds them they’re human becomes a sin. How do you heal when your only medicine is condemned?”

Jack: “Then maybe the answer isn’t to shame them — it’s to teach them how to love themselves better. To cook with the same love, but more wisdom.”

Jeeny: “So the soul stays, but the poison leaves.”

Jack: nods slowly “Exactly. Keep the tradition. Lose the toxicity. Not just in food — in habits, in relationships, in everything we consume.”

Jeeny: smiling softly now “You’re talking about detoxing the heart.”

Jack: “And the mind.”

Host: The music shifted — a slow, hopeful rhythm now, the kind of tune that makes the air feel lighter. Jeeny took a sip of her coffee; Jack pushed away his half-eaten plate.

The neon light steadied at last, no longer flickering — a steady red glow, warm and constant, like a pulse rediscovered.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what real soul food should be — something that nourishes both body and spirit.”

Jack: “Something that tastes like truth, not denial.”

Jeeny: “Something that keeps us alive, not just full.”

Jack: smiles faintly “And maybe the recipe starts with honesty.”

Jeeny: “And a little less butter.”

Host: Laughter broke between them, quiet but genuine, the kind that feels like healing. The rain stopped altogether, leaving behind the scent of wet pavement and renewal.

Through the window, the city lights gleamed brighter, reflected in puddles like tiny mirrors. The world outside — flawed, imperfect, but alive — seemed to echo the same truth they’d just uncovered.

That soul food, like the soul itself, isn’t about indulgence or denial.
It’s about balance — knowing what to hold onto and what to let go.

Because love, too, can be toxic —
until you learn how to make it nourish instead of consume.