The best advice is to avoid foods with health claims on the

Host: The grocery store was a temple of temptation — shelves lined like altars, each one glowing beneath the cold fluorescence of commercial worship. Colors screamed from every box: “Low-fat!”, “Gluten-free!”, “All natural!”, “Keto-approved!” — a holy litany of persuasion. The air smelled of sugar masked as health, of plastic and false promises.

Amidst the endless aisles of labels, Jack stood before a row of energy bars, his eyes scanning the packaging as if decoding a sacred text. His posture was tense, analytical. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against her cart, watching him with amusement and quiet sorrow, a bunch of unbranded apples resting in her basket.

Overhead, a store intercom hummed softly, its voice too cheerful for a place that sold confusion disguised as nourishment.

On a nearby display board, printed above a stack of “diet cereals,” was a quote, almost absurd in its placement:
“The best advice is to avoid foods with health claims on the label, or better yet avoid foods with labels in the first place.” — Mark Hyman

Jeeny looked at it and laughed under her breath.

Jeeny: Gesturing to the sign. “There. Wisdom in aisle seven. Though I doubt anyone reading it will listen.”

Jack: Without looking up. “Because it’s inconvenient. People want to feel good without effort. Labels give them shortcuts — the illusion of control.”

Jeeny: Picking up a box of ‘heart-healthy’ cereal. “Illusion is exactly right. We buy peace of mind, not food. Every box is a sermon, every claim a confession.”

Jack: Half-smiling, cynical. “So what’s your solution? Live like monks? Grow kale in clay pots and meditate over lentils?”

Jeeny: Gently. “No. Just remember that food isn’t supposed to need marketing. An apple doesn’t need a label to tell you it’s good for you.”

Jack: Glancing at her basket. “And yet you paid triple for those organic apples.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Because purity’s been privatized.”

Jack: Laughs quietly, then sighs. “That’s the real tragedy, isn’t it? Even honesty has a price tag now.”

Host: A cart rattled past, filled with boxes and bottles, their colors screaming louder than logic. Somewhere, a child cried for candy, and a mother negotiated morality in whispers. The world spun, transaction by transaction.

Jeeny moved closer, her eyes scanning the shelves — reading labels not for their promises, but their poetry of deceit.

Jeeny: “Every word here is designed to soothe guilt. ‘Guilt-free,’ ‘natural,’ ‘clean.’ What they’re really saying is: We know you’re afraid. We’ll sell you relief.”

Jack: Turning a package over, reading the fine print. “And yet, isn’t that what everyone wants? Certainty. Something that tells them they’re doing the right thing. Even if it’s a lie.”

Jeeny: “But certainty without truth is poison wrapped in comfort.”

Jack: Shrugs. “Better than ignorance wrapped in silence.”

Jeeny: Firmly. “No, Jack. Ignorance you can cure. Comfort, when it’s false, becomes dependency.”

Host: The fluorescent lights flickered, and the hum of the air conditioner deepened — a mechanical sigh echoing the fatigue of a planet overfed and undernourished.

Jeeny: Picking up a bottle of juice. “Do you know what’s ironic? This bottle says ‘pure,’ but look at the ingredients — stabilizers, coloring, preservatives. Purity is now a flavor, not a fact.”

Jack: Raises an eyebrow. “You make it sound like sin.”

Jeeny: With quiet conviction. “It is. We’ve turned nourishment into branding. We’ve made the sacred act of eating transactional. We no longer eat to live; we consume to define ourselves.”

Jack: Pauses, his tone softer. “Define ourselves? Or distract ourselves?”

Jeeny: “Both. We’ve traded the soil for slogans.”

Host: The music changed — a soft, upbeat tune promising optimism in 4/4 time. A new shipment was being shelved; boxes thudded, tape tore, and the rhythm of commerce continued unabated.

Jack walked toward the produce section — the only part of the store that felt alive. The smell of earth and fruit cut through the sterile air.

Jack: “You really think food can be moral?”

Jeeny: Following him. “Not food — but how we treat it. How we grow it, share it, respect it. That’s where morality lives. In gratitude, not greed.”

Jack: Picking up a bruised tomato. “And yet here we are — choosing aesthetics over essence.”

Jeeny: Her voice soft, almost poetic. “Because we fear imperfection. Even in fruit, we worship flawlessness — as if beauty could replace nourishment.”

Jack: Holding the tomato, thoughtful. “You think this is what Hyman meant? That the real health risk isn’t in the food, but in what we’ve done to the meaning of food?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The moment we needed a label to tell us something was good — we forgot how to trust our own senses.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping gently against the glass walls of the store. Through the window, the city shimmered — an ecosystem of concrete and craving. Inside, Jeeny placed the tomato back among its brothers, unchosen but not unloved.

Jack: Quietly. “So what do we do? Stop buying anything with a barcode?”

Jeeny: Smiling. “No. Just start noticing. Ask what it costs — not in dollars, but in distance from truth.”

Jack: “You make it sound like eating’s a moral act.”

Jeeny: Nods. “It always was. Every bite is a decision — what we value, what we ignore, what we sustain.”

Jack: Half-joking, half-sincere. “You make me feel guilty for wanting chips.”

Jeeny: Smiling softly. “Maybe guilt’s not the point. Maybe awareness is. Even guilt can be good — if it wakes you up instead of weighing you down.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the rain intensified. Customers moved faster, restless, their carts clattering like confessions escaping judgment. Jeeny and Jack stood quietly at the checkout line, the conveyor belt gliding forward — apples, bread, milk. Simple things. Unbranded truths.

The cashier smiled mechanically, scanning the barcodes that turned nourishment into transaction.

Jeeny glanced once more at the glowing quote on the display wall — Hyman’s words reflected in her eyes like scripture for a weary age.

Jeeny: Softly, almost to herself. “Avoid foods with labels. Maybe he didn’t mean just food. Maybe he meant all the labels we put on life — success, failure, purity, worth. Maybe health begins when we stop labeling everything.”

Jack: Pauses, watching her with quiet admiration. “And start tasting what’s real?”

Jeeny: Smiles faintly. “Exactly.”

Host: The camera lingered as they stepped into the rain — two figures beneath a trembling awning, the world around them glistening, raw, alive. Behind them, the automatic doors of the store hissed shut, sealing in the hum of artificial choice.

The street smelled of wet earth, and for a moment, the air felt honest again — unbranded, unfiltered, free.

And as the rain washed the advertisements from the windows, Mark Hyman’s words seemed to rise through the sound of water and thunder, not as diet advice, but as philosophy — pure, simple, and urgent:

“Seek what nourishes, not what markets. The healthiest things in life don’t need labels — they just need your attention.”