My parents arrived yesterday, but my dad’s juicer got here nearly three weeks ago. He mailed it way in advance to make absolutely sure he would have his juicer because, well, he “be juicin'” (his words).
This morning I drank a pint of liquified chard, kale, apple, grape and some other healthy stuff (ginger maybe?). I’m usually annoyed when people claim food gives them energy because, after I eat, I want to fall asleep in the bath and wake up when it’s time to eat again. Such claims of food-based vitality only nurse the guilt I carry about my excessive caramel eating. I’ll spare you the story about how, in the 4 hours since I drank the juice, I’ve written a novel and grounded all the outlets in my house. That would be annoying.
Have you seen a Jack LaLanne juicer? It’s the size of a European automobile. Along with the 10 giant bags of fruits and vegetables, the whole shebang takes up half our kitchen. I wasn’t aware that turning an apple into liquid requires a lawnmower engine encased in a missile silo. You’re supposed to throw everything in there “as is” too – a whole head of lettuce; a whole apple. I’m not even sure if you have to peel a banana. It’s a garbage disposal that makes nutrients, and it’s hard to resist testing its limits.
“Hey, what happens if we try to juice a chicken or a bicycle seat? I want a meatloaf, cardboard, speaker wire, and mouse pad juice. Come on, I’ll buy you a new one if it breaks. Please, Dad? Go to my room? You got it. Sorry. Can we try a hula hoop … no?”
Oh, and by the way, all those bags of fruits and vegetables will only make 3 glasses of juice. That one pint I drank contained more leafy greens than I’ve eaten in the past 8 years. My body is all like, “Yo, what up with all this chard, bro?” An entire pear yields about half an ounce of juice. Apparently that’s how big a pear is in juice form. I know, it makes no sense, but remember, there are plenty of other weird sciencey things like pendulums, dry ice, and clumpable cat litter, so the fact that a pear shrinks to a 10th of it’s size when liquified shouldn’t really be all that shocking. Yes, I agree that such shrinkage should only occur if the pear was filled mostly with air, but we just have to accept that we don’t understand things very well. It takes faith to be OK with the drastic disappearance of mass caused by a juicer.
The juicer has to be cleaned after every use, which is totally fine because after a few years of practice, the routine only takes the average person about 45 minutes. You have to take the entire thing apart and scrub it with a tiny brush. I wasn’t aware that fruit and vegetables were poisonous. I spent less time cleaning out my mouth after I accidentally ate a mothball (I was 8). If a juicer needs to be cleaned that extensively, my salad spinner probably carries bubonic plague.
I’m digging drinking the juices though. They make me feel pretty damn good (I’ve only had one, so “them” is a lie). As long as my dad is making them and cleaning up, I’m totally down. Once he leaves, it’s probably back to the microwave which, by the way, I’ve never cleaned.