Ooh, ick.

Someone asked if I ate lots of pizza in Chicago. I didn’t. Not that the weekend was free of new culinary experiences, however. I did sample something previously unexplored.

Wheatgrass juice.

I don’t know why. Kate and I were loitering at Water Tower Place with about a dozen other little girls, all early risers from the Eastern time zone no doubt, clutching our dolls and waiting for the American Girl Place to open. By our body clocks, it was mid-morning, and Kate wanted a snack. There was a juice bar. I got her a blueberry-strawberry smoothie and turned to the less milkshakey portion of the menu. I wanted the fortification of vegetables to take on this big day. Raw carrot juice? Naw. Raw beet juice? Nope. Carrot-beet blends, then? Uh-uh. And then I saw it — the flat of grass, the fearsome sign admonishing customers to “drink your vegetables,” touting the wonders of wheatgrass juice. Apparently it has so many antioxidants in one little cup that cancer cells quail and shrink. It has chlorophyll, which does…well, something really good, I’m sure.

I’ve read about this stuff. I hear it’s the magic elixir, along with SPF 65 sunblock and the blood of virgin poolboys, that keeps Hollywood women of a certain age from looking that way. They say it tastes like exactly what you’d think it tastes like. They say it takes real guts to swallow this crap.

“Set ’em up,” I told the juicemaster. He looked at me with new respect (or maybe it was the look you give a crazy person) and picked up his knife, hacking off a double handful and stuffing it into the extractor. The closest I came to barfing came when I saw the solids extruded out the other end, a sight anyone with a grass-eating dog will recognize from dozens of carpet cleanups. He served it up in a tiny plastic cup, no more than a swallow.

Kate made a face before returning to her smoothie. I picked it up and took a tentative, tiny sip. Not that bad — obviously there was a dollop of honey involved that I’d missed in the preparation. I wasn’t going to immediately barf it back up. So I thought of dorm rooms and tequila, cough syrup and kale and other disgusting things, closed my eyes and knocked the rest back.

I stood there waiting for the transformation. Anything this bad had to have an immediate payoff — losing 10 pounds overnight, a burst of energy, a new lease on life.

Nothing. At least I didn’t throw up. And no unpleasant GI aftermath, either.

On the whole, I’d rather have had pizza.

So, bloggage:

Lance Mannion was the first person to recommend Fred Busch’s work to me, and it was a good call — I still remember “The Night Inspector” with a great deal of dread and clarity, and as for “Girls,” well.

Busch died unexpectedly — if “suddenly at 63” qualifies as unexpected — last weekend. Lance has some thoughts.

The end of this week should bring the Busy Period to a (tentative) end, for now. Hope to be a little more full-bodied by next.

Posted at 9:14 am in Same ol' same ol' |

3 responses to “Ooh, ick.”

  1. Danny said on March 1, 2006 at 11:45 am

    Nance, the real way to take a shot of wheatgrass is to “moo” afterwards. Try it, it’s fun.

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  2. Rich B said on March 1, 2006 at 2:34 pm

    (Nancy, is it appropiate to post today for yesterdays blog, or if I’m late should I just forget about it?)

    Winston Churchill, I don’t imagine treated very many people as
    equals and maybe pigs supplied him the balance missing from his social life. Likewise (or unlikewise) the guy under everyone thumb may need the happy slobering hello from the family dog.

    Now, a word about cats. I had a freind, way back who hadn’t seen his cat in days while his dog was ever faithful. He dropped a couple of tabs of LSD and lay down when the going got rough. Low and behold the cat, out of nowhere came to sit purring on his chest while the dog freaked out and left. They’re different.

    p.s. I wish there was a spell checker on this response page.

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  3. Connie said on March 1, 2006 at 6:58 pm

    I’ve seen those gaggles of girls with their dolls in hotel lobbies all over Chicago, even all the way out to Schaumburg. They always look so happy. The two AG dolls at my house, one is on a shelf wearing a Dutch costume and wooden shoes and the other (poor Molly) is in a box under the bed with all their clothes. And yes at Dutch Village in Holland, my high school days employer, you can buy wooden shoes for about any kind of popular doll, at the church bazaars you can buy the costumes. Let’s see there are also two Barbies and one Cabbage Patch around the house in their Dutch girl finery.

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