That's a big goal of mine, to try and grow as much of my own food

Host: The sun hung low over the horizon, its light melting into the amber fields that stretched endlessly around the old farmhouse. A soft breeze stirred the wild grass, carrying the faint scent of soil and freshly tilled earth. The sky was a deep violet, bruised with the promise of night, and the sound of distant crickets rose like a slow, rhythmic heartbeat.

Jack sat on the porch steps, his hands dusty, a small shovel resting beside him. His shirt clung to his shoulders with sweat, and his eyes, sharp and grey, traced the rows of newly planted vegetables.

Jeeny stood near the garden fence, her hair catching the last glow of the sun, her bare feet pressing into the cool soil. She looked at the tiny sprouts pushing through the earth with something close to reverence.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… Daryl Hannah once said, ‘That’s a big goal of mine, to try and grow as much of my own food as possible.’”

Jack: smirking slightly “A nice dream. But one that fits better in interviews than in real life.”

Host: The air hung still for a moment, the breeze retreating. A bird crossed the sky, its shadow sliding over the rows of soil.

Jeeny: “Why do you always call it a dream, Jack? People have done this for centuries — living off their land, growing what they eat. It’s not idealism, it’s returning to balance.”

Jack: “Balance? You call bending your back for twelve hours a day in the dirt balance? We’ve spent thousands of years moving away from that. Civilization — cities — technology — they exist because people wanted to stop starving.”

Host: The light from the sunset flickered in Jack’s eyes, cold and metallic. Jeeny’s face softened, yet her jaw tightened.

Jeeny: “And what did we trade for that? Soil for plastic. Fields for skyscrapers. We’ve built a world where people don’t even know where their food comes from — or who suffers to produce it.”

Jack: “We traded survival for efficiency. You think people in 14th-century France romanticized farming? They prayed for a single season without famine. You want to go back to that?”

Jeeny: “No. I want to go forward — differently. Look at what’s happening now: community gardens in cities, rooftop farms in Tokyo, people reclaiming their relationship with the earth. They’re not escaping civilization; they’re healing it.”

Host: A pause. The wind returned, brushing against the leaves. The faint sound of water — perhaps from a nearby stream — echoed like a memory of simpler times.

Jack: “Healing? Or pretending? The world feeds eight billion people, Jeeny. You think your tomatoes and lettuce will make a dent in that?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about feeding everyone. It’s about feeding your soul. It’s about knowing that what nourishes you once breathed under your hands. Don’t you ever feel empty, Jack, surrounded by all this technology, this noise?”

Host: Jack’s hand brushed through the soil, its grains sticking to his skin. His express