We have to bring children into a new relationship to food that

Host: The sunset spilled over the hills, painting the fields in amber light. The faint scent of tilled earth, wild mint, and smoke from a distant woodfire hung in the air. In the middle of the community garden, a small wooden table stood between rows of tomatoes, basil, and spinach, all still glistening with the day’s sweat.

Jack knelt in the soil, his hands stained, his shirt rolled, his face streaked with dust and sunlight. Jeeny approached carrying a basket of fresh vegetables, her hair pulled back, her eyes bright with the calm joy that comes from working with something alive.

Jeeny: “Alice Waters once said, ‘We have to bring children into a new relationship to food that connects them to culture and agriculture.’”

Jack: looking up, smirking faintly “Sounds poetic. Also sounds like someone who’s never tried to convince a kid that carrots come from dirt and not from supermarkets.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem — we’ve made food too clean, too distant. Kids don’t see the earth anymore. They see plastic.”

Jack: “You mean to tell me a little soil between your teeth is a cultural awakening?”

Jeeny: “If it teaches you that life begins under the soil, yes.”

Host: The wind rustled the leaves, and a few sparrows darted across the sky, their wings cutting through the golden air. Jeeny placed the basket down, sat, and began sorting the vegetables, her hands moving slowly, reverently — like someone handling truth itself.

Jack: “Culture and agriculture. Funny how those words used to mean the same thing. Now culture’s what you stream on a screen, and agriculture’s what you import from a thousand miles away.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve uprooted our roots.”

Jack: “Nice phrase. Sounds like something you’d print on an eco tote bag.”

Jeeny: smiling “Maybe. But think about it — children grow up knowing the names of logos before they know the names of plants. Isn’t that a tragedy?”

Jack: “It’s efficiency. It’s progress.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s amnesia. Progress that forgets where it came from is just wandering.”

Host: The light softened, the sun sinking lower, casting long shadows across the garden beds. The smell of compost and basil rose — pungent, earthy, grounding.

Jack: “You always romanticize dirt. You talk like the soil’s a philosopher.”

Jeeny: “It is. It remembers. Every handful holds stories — what grew, what rotted, what returned. Soil teaches resilience better than any textbook.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny, but let’s be honest — kids today care more about fast Wi-Fi than slow compost.”

Jeeny: “Then we’ve failed them. We gave them speed, but not sense.”

Host: Jack stood, brushed off his hands, and walked toward the edge of the field, where a scarecrow leaned in quiet witness. His voice dropped a tone — half mockery, half confession.

Jack: “You talk about connecting children to food like it’s some sacred duty. But isn’t that the parents’ job? Or the schools’? You can’t fight the tide of a billion-dollar junk food industry with a basket of tomatoes.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you can plant a seed that questions the tide.”

Jack: “And what then? Hope the kids turn into farmers?”

Jeeny: “No. Hope they turn into people who respect farmers.”

Host: The air shimmered with the last of the day’s heat. A child’s laughter floated faintly from the other side of the garden — a small boy chasing a butterfly, his hands clumsy, his smile wide. Jack watched him for a moment, something soft flickering behind his eyes.

Jack: “You know, my father grew up on a farm in Kansas. He used to tell me how they’d share meals that took hours — vegetables straight from the earth, bread still warm from the oven. He said food wasn’t just food — it was family.”

Jeeny: “And what happened?”

Jack: “He left. Said he was done with dirt. Became an accountant. By the time I was born, dinner came from boxes and weekends came from exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “So maybe that’s what Waters meant — to bring the children back to the table their parents abandoned.”

Jack: “You make it sound like salvation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Every time we eat mindfully, we’re saving something — flavor, history, patience.”

Host: A flock of crows passed, their calls cutting the silence, like a sermon in flight. Jeeny reached into the basket, pulled out a small, imperfect tomato, and handed it to Jack.

Jeeny: “Taste this.”

Jack: suspiciously “Is this another lesson disguised as a snack?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Try it.”

Host: Jack bit into it, and the juice burst — sweet, tangy, wild. His eyebrows lifted, a reluctant smile breaking across his face.

Jack: “Okay. That’s… ridiculously good.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s real. Because it still remembers the sun.”

Jack: “You talk like food has memory.”

Jeeny: “It does. You can taste it — what was cared for, what was rushed. Food grown with love carries language no recipe can translate.”

Host: The light waned further, painting their faces in shades of dusk. Around them, the crickets began their song, the earth cooling, the air thickening with evening.

Jack: “You think this can really change people — planting gardens, teaching kids to cook, to care?”

Jeeny: “I don’t just think it. I’ve seen it. You put a child in a garden, and they start to ask questions. You hand them a tomato they grew themselves, and they learn reverence. It’s not just education, Jack. It’s re-enchantment.”

Jack: “Re-enchantment.” He repeats it slowly. “You mean making wonder a habit again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s culture — not what we consume, but what we cultivate.”

Host: The moon rose faintly above the horizon, its light silvering the leaves. The garden glowed, alive even in darkness. Jack picked up a handful of soil, let it crumble between his fingers, the particles drifting like brown dust onto the roots below.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe the earth isn’t just dirt. Maybe it’s a memory we keep forgetting to remember.”

Jeeny: “And maybe every meal is a chance to remember.”

Jack: softly “Then let’s teach the kids to remember better than we did.”

Host: The wind hushed, the night deepened, and somewhere nearby, the boy’s laughter turned into the faint hum of a lullaby. The fields rested, breathing quietly under the moon’s light — soil and soul, both nourished.

Jeeny gathered the basket, Jack carried the tools, and together they walked through the rows, their footsteps slow, deliberate, reverent.

Host: In that garden, under the open sky, they were no longer just two adults talking about food. They were children again — rediscovering awe, humility, and the sacred rhythm of hunger and gratitude.

And as they left, the earth whispered beneath their feet — alive, forgiving, eternal — reminding them of a truth Alice Waters knew all along:

To feed the body is to teach the heart where it came from.
To teach the child to eat — is to teach the world to love again.