We have food deserts in our cities. We know that the distance you

Host: The evening air was thick with summer heat and the distant hum of traffic. A faded streetlight flickered above the cracked sidewalk, casting a soft, uncertain glow over a once-bustling neighborhood now breathing in slow decay. Graffiti bloomed on old brick walls, and the smell of fried oil and asphalt clung to the air.

In the corner, a vacant lot where a grocery store used to stand was now overgrown with weeds, a ghost of commerce swallowed by time. Beside it, a food truck—its paint chipped, its neon sign dim—offered tacos, sodas, and the rare comfort of a hot meal.

Jack leaned against the truck, arms crossed, watching a mother buy her child a meal. Jeeny sat nearby on a broken bench, a notepad on her knee, her eyes tracing the dim horizon where skyscrapers glowed miles away—bright, unreachable.

Jeeny: “Michael Pollan once said, ‘We have food deserts in our cities. The distance you live from a supplier of fresh produce is one of the best predictors of your health. And in the inner city, people don't have grocery stores. So we have to figure out a way of getting supermarkets and farmers markets into the inner cities.’”

Jack: (snorts) “Yeah, I’ve read that quote. Idealistic. But the thing about deserts, Jeeny, is that they exist for a reason. Things don’t grow there because the system’s already dried them out.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why we have to fix it. Deserts aren’t natural—they’re made. You think cities just accidentally lost their grocery stores? This is policy, zoning, profit margins, neglect. We built a system where fresh food doesn’t fit.”

Host: The buzz of a nearby streetlamp filled the pause. The child with the taco laughed, sauce smeared across his face, before disappearing into the darkness of the next block.

Jack: “You can’t just drop a supermarket in the middle of a neighborhood and expect it to thrive. People need jobs, stability, transport. They need money to spend on that kale you keep talking about.”

Jeeny: “But how do they get those things if we don’t start somewhere? Food isn’t a luxury—it’s a foundation. You don’t fix a broken community by handing out slogans; you fix it by giving people real nourishment. You can’t ask a hungry person to dream.”

Jack: “And you can’t ask a corporation to care.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not corporations we need. Maybe it’s communities.”

Host: A car rumbled past, bass shaking the pavement. A group of teenagers laughed from across the street, their faces lit by their phones, the blue light bouncing off puddles. Jeeny’s voice cut through the noise—quiet, but unwavering.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how some neighborhoods have five grocery stores within two blocks, while others have five liquor stores and a fast-food joint?”

Jack: “Yeah. And guess which ones make money. You think companies don’t know what sells? They follow the data. People buy what’s cheap and what’s close.”

Jeeny: “But the data’s poisoned. People buy what’s available, not what’s healthy. You put a farmers market here, and you’d see change. The problem is, no one’s willing to invest in hope.”

Jack: “Hope doesn’t pay rent, Jeeny. You want to save the world with tomatoes, but people can barely keep their lights on.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it matters! Because food is the first language of dignity. A plate of real food says, ‘You deserve to live well.’”

Host: The night breeze shifted, carrying the smell of onions from the truck’s grill. Jack looked away, his jaw tense. There was something in Jeeny’s tone that hit deeper than policy—it was personal.

Jack: “You know, I grew up in a neighborhood like this. Closest thing to a fresh vegetable was canned peas. My mom worked two jobs, and dinner was whatever didn’t expire first. I didn’t eat a real salad until college. You talk about dignity, but poverty doesn’t taste like shame—it tastes like necessity.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly what Pollan meant. You shouldn’t have to leave your zip code to find a tomato that hasn’t seen a freezer.”

Jack: “It’s not just about access. It’s culture too. When you grow up surviving, you don’t crave what’s good for you—you crave what comforts you.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we need to redefine comfort. Make fresh food part of the story again. Not as a luxury, but as belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging doesn’t come from broccoli, Jeeny. It comes from people not feeling like they’ve been forgotten.”

Jeeny: “And what better way to show people they’re remembered than to feed them well?”

Host: The neon light of the food truck flickered, spelling “OPEN” for a heartbeat, then vanishing into darkness. The grill sizzled. Somewhere, a police siren wailed, fading into the distance.

Jeeny: “Think about it, Jack. We live in a world where you can get a burger at 3 a.m. but not an apple after dark. That’s not freedom—that’s failure.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. You think a grocery store’s gonna fix inequality? People need reform, not produce aisles.”

Jeeny: “It’s not either-or. It’s both. Because food is politics. Food is education. Food is power. You teach a kid to cook with real ingredients, you’re teaching them that they have control. That they can choose. That they’re worth the time it takes to peel something fresh.”

Jack: “And yet, half the people I know would rather work three extra hours than come home to chop vegetables.”

Jeeny: “That’s because exhaustion kills curiosity. You give people energy, they start to imagine again. And imagination builds change.”

Host: A quiet moment passed. The sound of the city dimmed into something almost sacred. Jeeny’s words hung in the air like incense—soft, stubborn, true.

Jack looked down, his hands rough, still stained faintly with engine grease.

Jack: “You know what’s sad? You’re right. But the system’s designed to stay hungry. Not just for food—for struggle. Hunger keeps people obedient.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the most radical act isn’t protest. It’s planting something.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You think vegetables can start a revolution?”

Jeeny: “No. But they can sustain one.”

Host: The moon broke through the clouds, spilling pale light across the empty lot where the grocery once stood. In that light, the cracks in the concrete looked almost like roots searching for ground.

Jeeny: “You know, Pollan was right. The health of a city isn’t measured by its skyline. It’s measured by what people can put on their plates.”

Jack: “And maybe by how far they have to walk to get it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because every step between a person and a piece of fresh food is a measure of how much we really value them.”

Jack: (quietly) “And how much we’ve failed them.”

Host: The rain began again—light, rhythmic, washing the streets like forgiveness. Jeeny closed her notepad, stood, and walked toward the empty lot. She knelt, brushing her hand across the earth, dark and still warm from the day’s heat.

Jack watched, his expression softening, the kind of look that comes when skepticism starts to feel like surrender.

Jeeny: “One day, there’ll be something growing here again.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to.”

Host: She stood, brushing dirt from her palms, and the two of them stood together beneath the rain. The city around them glowed faintly, alive but weary — a heartbeat beneath layers of concrete and neglect.

Jack offered her his umbrella. She shook her head, smiling.

And as they walked away from the food truck, from the hunger and the silence, the first drops began to soak the soil where Jeeny’s hand had touched —
as if the earth itself was listening,
waiting,
ready to remember what it meant to grow.