I bought a juicer. For Bernie. For his birthday.
This was the lamest birthday present of all time since 1) it suggests we are fat and unhealthy and in need of liquid veggies we’re too lazy to chew, and 2) Bernie would never, ever go to Williams Sonoma and just buy the most expensive model, and also 3) my dear husband’s Asian sensibilities make him averse to cold veggies in a that’s-been-growing-in-compost-so-should-be-annhilated-with-heat kind of way. So, really, a lame ass birthday present all around. Couple the expensive kitchen appliance with my mother’s adorable notion that Bernie would ever pair these with his new tuxedo:
…and we have a banner birthday haul for my Yankee Doodle Bernie.
To be honest, I wanted the juicer. The near quarterly weigh-ins at routine physicals, specialty appointments, and biannual oncology checkups are an annoying reminder that if I don’t stay svelte, I’m not giving my all to the Big Cancer Fight. A recurrence would be devastating. But thinking I barbeque potato chipped my way back to chemo could possibly make it worse. So, I’m juicing and I’m skinny and feel healthy and look fabulous. But here’s another bit of honesty: it’s sort of gross, it’s a pain in touchas, and I’m fucking hungry.
All that aside, dear Stevie recently bought a juicer, too. Now that he’s a (part-time) New Yorker, this was de rigeur. Although no one thinks he’ll actually, really–like ever– use the vegetable pulverizing product (Steve being a man more commonly associated with beer and grilled meats on sticks), here’s how he summed it up:
I’m pleased about the raw food craze. At last– something I can cook.
He also admitted that it was a bit of a social pressure purchase. I mean, isn’t everyone juicing? Ginger infused kale drinks have replaced our soy mocha latte afternoons as sneakily as Macklemore lyrics have infested my 8 year old’s daily lexicon. And as long as “The Popeye” at the local juicing joint costs as much as an hour of babysitting, we’ll all find ourselves at Williams Sonoma asking ridiculous questions about pulp… and then we’ll stare at the ridiculous appliance that is now the kitchen counter equivalent of the NordicTrack. Because it’s a bitch to clean. And no matter how organic, vegan, honeybee-defending healthy you might be, at some point (if you’re like me) you will grow tired of liquefied salad… and will crave grilled meat on sticks.
But for now, I’m still juicing. Because I am vain, and drinking all of these cucumbers and spinach and parsley and carrots and celery and apples and peppers has me glowing with health and smug superiority. “Oh, me? I have a Breville. OH MY GOD, it’s life-changing. Yes, so easy to clean. Have you tried Swiss chard?” Lies… all lies. Also, completely unsustainable, because 40 years of habit and million years of evolution require that I… at least occasionally… need to eat grilled meats on sticks. Drinking all of these veggies has me skinny-fabulous, but also feeling like a huge phony… because I totally know all of the words to Macklemore songs, spend untold hours on Candy Crush Saga, and can finish a bottle of Prosecco without any help at all. The juicing, Cancer-defying,Facebook-game-addict-wino is about as congruent as Bernie in a pair of bow-adorned flats.
My adorable husband, who received no real birthday present at all, is oddly supportive of the juicer purchase. Although he has no interest in green, pulpy beverages, he is happy to imbibe fruitier options: mashed pineapple and orange and mango are met with yummy noises and great enthusiasm…
… but also the slightest suggestion that these fruity, healthy juices might be improved with Meyer’s Rum. I married the right boy.