Back to the Bolthouse Farms refrigerated shelf for a refreshing dab o’ new juice to try for Meal Number Two of Juice Fest 2014.
I didn’t want carrots again, as the smell still resides in my car. The heated afternoon air baking in my closed car enhanced the carrot-ish aroma erupting out of my air vents, so I drove back to the store with four windows down.
New! I needed a new taste, to cleanse my palette and move forward.
First: pick a fruit juice. Pomegranate? Is that the one with all the seeds? Sure! I’ll take it…and for the veggies…hmmm…aha! Daily Greens! Reading the label, contents contained the things most common from my documentary forage: kale, celery, a squeeze of lemon. Aha, so more fruit! I said I could do this, let’s see if I can do this!
With my new purchases I headed back to the car.
Seems I do a lot of ingestion in my car. While the windows are down, of course.
I started with fruit. Who doesn’t love fruit? It’s fruit! But pomegranates…are they fruit? I … don’t think … I’m pretty sure I don’t like pomegranates.
With half gone, I put down the juice. I’m sure I drank half of it. That’s my story.
Optimistically, joyfully, Fear Factor-ishly, I popped open the Daily Greens and proceeded to prove to myself that indeed, I can do this juice thing, and drink the same things that people on Netflix drink!
Perhaps I was a bit too accommodating with that first, large, too large, drink.
Immediately I knew, if I don’t keep drinking, this bottle is going out the window.
I downed it. I looked around for Joe Rogan to document that I in fact drank it all and give me my fifty grand.
No such luck.
For forty-seven minutes, I talked myself through the urge to vomit.
Even now, hours after the feat, I sneer at the keyboard while my throat constricts.
But I’m ever hopeful and vigilant. Doggone it, I’m keeping up with my Bolthouse Farms juicing. I’ll find the bottles that make me happy.
But they need to be ice cold, I know that. Lukewarm? Oh the mere thought sets me to gagging again.
Perhaps the juice itself is an acquired texture to enjoy.
Oh, and I’m not a fan of lemon. “Lemon squeeze” will be eschewed while I label shop.
I’ve been Vegucating myself.
Stuff I already know: vegetables are good for you. Eat more of them.
But indolence breeds amnesia. It’s work to cook things. I’m not a huge fan of the kitchen, except that it holds the fridge where I keep my fudgsicles.
After a Netflix ridden documentary/educational film weekend, I rose to the challenge: eat more veggies!
Most of the Netflix persona ingestion was by juicing, and as I have no juicer, nor know a juice advocate — as I live in the sticks where neighbor snipers pick off coyotes for sport — I opted for actual noshing of vegetables. Granted I would need to eat my weight in leafy greens in order to get the same nutritional quality of one glass of liquefied glory, but I prefer using my teeth for grinding rather than straining.
But first: kickboxing! It’s been a number of months since I went to class. My thighs still quiver when I walk, and my calves weep, so I’m a bit stilted when I move.
And after kickboxing: to the grocer!
No kale. The kale shelves were picked clean. Kale was to be the staple of the noshing.
Undeterred, I hobbled to the juice aisle and picked two. Bolthouse Farms boasts 100% juice! Perfect!
Recently a fellow vegucator — the one I blame for my newly overturned leaf; not sure whether to thank him or shun him — told me he hated carrots. I commiserated. Yuk. But wait wait, he loved carrot juice. Delicious, couldn’t get enough of it.
Dubious though I was, when faced with a Bolthouse Farms 100% carrot juice while not holding kale, I grabbed the bottle, along with a cherry juice — I love cherries, no doubt there — and strode to the register as quick as my wobbly legs would take me.
At the register, the clerk said, “Hm. We had kale yesterday. That stuff’s been flying out of here.”
I’m obviously not the only one with Netflix.
All weekend, while watching one documentary after another showing people drinking cup after liter of liquid veggies for weeks on end — and “real people” sampling it saying, “Mm, that’s not bad, I’d drink that,” – I thought, “I, too, can do that!”
But countered, “Once a day.”
My plan was/is to drink one meal a day of pure juice.
So back in the car, still in the grocery parking lot, I downed my first taste of pure carrot juice.
My vegetator friend be crazy. Do you know how difficult it is to clean orange liquid from air conditioner vents? I ran out of wet wipes long before I ran out of mess to clean.
I chased the carrot with cherry, and do you know that there is indeed a difference between “cherry” and “tart cherry”? My lips shriveled and hid behind my tonsils.
I managed to drink both bottles, telling myself how delicious carrots are, how I eat baby ones all the time, and hey, remember how much I used to love cherry pie? Come on! It’s carrots! It’s cherries!
I fought myself from forcing myself to drink.
BUT. First veggie juice meal: in the books.
Currently Feeling: slightly green around the gills. But good! Healthy!
Also Currently: Sleepy! I needed a nap, and a long one, around two. But I have a Bubs, so…ever onward…
Rarely does a perfect book fall into my lap.
I’m so glad when it does.
“Men know the damage a few words can do to girls’ hearts, and, idiots that we are, we swoon away and fall into the trap, excited because at last a man has set one for us”
― Grégoire Delacourt, La Liste de mes envies
“My Wish List“, by Gregoire Delacourt, originally published in French and then translated and published in English, landed in a donation box that was carried into my most wonderful little library in my part of the world Out There. I caught it’s thread and spool covered cover while I was heating lunch leftovers, and since I had no reading material that day, I snagged this jewel, opened its cover, and scarcely left its side until today when I read its last beautiful word.
This novella read as though Monsieur Delacourt was a Madame. Few things I’ve read lately capture a woman’s thoughts so well. Perhaps too many things struck chords in my own being, and that’s okay. They were gentle plucking phrases, leaving me affected but not bereft; thoughtful treatment I appreciated.
Think on these things:
What would you do if you won the lottery? Who would you tell? Would you share? What if you did, and it ruined everything in your world?
Mr. Delacourt, with a brilliant voice, elicits brave questions sung atop perfect, resonant prosody.