And have I mentioned the lettuce?
Because there isn't anything much nicer than heading out to your patio with a bowl and a pair of shears to snip, snip, snip your way to the gentlest, tenderest, most adorable salad you've ever eaten.
I mean, isn't that precious?
And then there's this action:
Our family is in thrall to a juicer. We feed it daily, stuffing it with what I can only term a professional amount of produce: spinach, cabbage, lettuce (green, red, and romaine), collards, chard (green, red, and rainbow), kale (curly and lacinato), parsley, celery, cucumber, lemon, carrots, ginger, coconut, apples, oranges, pineapple.
It's obscene, I admit it. I am a brazen hussy. But it feels so right.
I crave this stuff every morning. We're talking beyond coffee. The juice! I gotta have it! It's all Requium for a Dream up in here -- except, you know, healthy. My vegetable scrub brush and me: We've become besties.
Then I drink the green juice down and ZING!
Wow! Life! It's just! So much is possible!
All of a sudden!
Maybe you've got to be there.
You want to know the days I feel truly deviant? When we throw in wheat grass.
Yes, I've figured out how to grow it myself. Turns out it's a fairly straighforward process. I can remember, back when I was in college, doing the wild show Ruthless! while stricken with mononucleosis. I used to stumble blearily by the juice bar on the way to the theater and down a shot of wheat grass before every performance. The stuff is a little bit magical.
Zow! Vitamins! Minerals! Phytonutrients! Enzymes!
And . . . I haven't had a migraine in six weeks.