This is one man's tale about juicing. For the sake of full disclosure, I write this at Ivey's request as part of my juicing recovery program...
The story opens on a familiar scene: Children are tucked in bed, Ivey is zonked on the sofa with her legs across me and I am filing through films on Netflix looking for a new documentary about Space. I find none. Having already gone through a litany of Ivey's food-focused documentaries with her, I teeter on the brink of deciding to watch another. Not knowing whether she would be proud or jealous of my watching a food show alone, I tentatively venture forward.
Play.
Soon I am immersed in
Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead. Without revealing whether I found the documentary persuasive, I will admit to one small fact. At minute 43, I paused the film, logged on to Amazon.com and ordered a juicer. I watched the remainder of the program with the comforting assurance that a robot in a warehouse somewhere was retrieving my juicer; it was being neatly boxed for the transpacific flight to Australia where, upon arrival, I would care for it as a loving parent.
The following morning, I experienced a fair amount of shame when my wife discovered the email receipt for said juicer. She was a mix of emotions as I explained myself, but mostly bedazzled by my measured and wise decision making. That's how I interpreted her head-shaking.
When the juicer arrived, we placed it on a makeshift throne atop the counter and pushed other items away slightly so as to make clear the distinction between the appliance that mattered and those that didn't. Electronic devices, loose papers, bread loaves, and other objects felt the uncomfortable presence of the caste system in our kitchen that day.
I calmly explained to Ivey that it would be necessary to spend the first four hours of our Saturday at the fresh food markets acquiring produce. Additionally, no expense should be spared in securing each of the dozens of obscure ingredients proscribed by
The Healthy Green Drink book
, which the Amazon warehouse robot had thoughtfully included. Purslane, kohlrabi tops, mizuna, and dandelion greens would all need to be procured.
The plan was simple, but elegant. From a central location in the market, I would stand watch over three shopping carts while studying the list of ingredients. Dutiful children would be dispatched from the mobile headquarters one at a time to retrieve a list of two-to-three ingredients. Repeat until complete. On the way out, don't forget to impulse buy a 50lb bag of horse carrots.
Once home, the cornucopia was arrayed appealingly and groomed for a photo shoot. The world must know. The children, meanwhile, were to select from
The Juicing Bible their drink of choice, place the ingredients on a clean dinner plate and standby for portraits. This was all completed to my satisfaction. Then, we juiced.
Kidding aside, the juice was incredibly delicious. My amorous affair with juicing had been entirely rewarding to this point. The kids loved it. The only negative side-effect was that I took dizzy and collapsed on the sofa after drinking in 30 minutes the equivalent of my annual allotment of fruits and veg. I was, very likely, high on juice.
For me, the honeymoon period with juicing lasted about two weeks. Cleaning the juicer wasn't a big deal, I told myself. I would do it promptly after each use, except when I would not. When I would not, the stiff aroma of fermenting apples and kale would accumulate, along with decorative mold along the interior of the juicer. It will be easier to clean tomorrow, I would tell myself. Alas, it never was.
Moreover and inconveniently, juicing took planning. I always had too much ginger and not enough bok choy, gala apples instead of green, beetroot when I needed grapes. Half of my supplies perished from neglect. The stress of it all was beginning to overtake me. I had to take a step back.
As of today, I am six months clean. Rather, I am a moderate juicer. I have the occasional carrot juice when we realize a surplus from the store. Every once in a while, I'll crack open one of my old juice books, and treat myself to a Blimey Mary or Popeye Punch. These are all good, healthy habits and I have no regrets about having asked my robot friend at Amazon to pull the juicer off the shelf.
I will, however, admit to Ivey that I was possibly, maybe slightly, just a little bit rash in my juicer purchase. The next time Netflix fails to deliver a new documentary about Space, I will play it safe and watch Sharknado.
(Final note from Ivey: This is a true story. And it took us over 2 months to get through those carrots. Also, spirulina is awesome stuff. Buy some immediately, but skip the powder form. NEVER put it in anything. Ever. Take the capsules if you must, but don't ruin a good juice by adding spirulina powder, even if it calls for it.)
Happy Juicing!
The End.
After regaining my health somewhat and at the completion of nursing Des, I began to exercise again. It had been a while, folks, and was a slow start. But views like this certainly made the early rising worth it.
