My wife is a frequent patron of Bed, Bath, and Beyond. It’s a good thing, I suppose. If the home décor shopping were left to me, everything would come from Home Depot. Instead of a comforter on the bed, we’d have a plastic drop cloth.
“I bought a Nutribullet,” she said.
“What? A nutria-bullet? First it was substitute teaching, and then dog sitting. Now you’re going into the swamp to bag pelts? We don’t need the extra cash that bad.”
“No, silly,” she corrected me. “It juices fruits and vegetables.”
Finally, she’d bought something practical from the place. Visions of fresh, farmers’ market tomatoes being processed into Bloody Mary’s danced in my head. But alas, that was not her plan. Rather, it was only her latest in a long string of attempts to improve my dietary habits.
“But I already eat plenty of vegetables,” I protested.
“Celery and blue cheese with atomic Buffalo wings doesn’t count,” she admonished.
The next morning, I arrived at the breakfast table to find a big tumbler of purple goo at my setting. It had all the visual appeal of used transmission fluid.
“It’s called a ‘Vita-Berry Blast’,” she said. “Just try it…for me.”
I’ve learned that when your wife adds the words, “for me” to a request, they have the same meaning as “or else!” And so I tried it. Surprisingly, the concoction was quite tasty, as was the next morning’s “Toxin Cleaning Blast” and the “Antioxidant Fusion” the day after that. Finally, she’d hooked onto a food fad I could tolerate, unlike to her experiment with whole-grain cereal, or as I called it, “cypress mulch with skim milk.”
After a week or so, my wife, announced that I was ready to delve into the stage two recipes. “Here we introduce more ingredients with even more nutritional value.”
“Stages? This thing has stages?” I asked. “Makes it sound like I graduated or something. Maybe we should take things a bit slower and do a few weeks of summer school. I’m not sure I’m ready for the ‘Kryptonite Kale Kick-Starter’ or the ‘Pear and Poison Ivy Pick-Me-Up’.”
“You’ll live,” she said.
I lived, all right. More than that, I took such a liking to the taste of smoothies that I soon found myself reaching for the Nutribullet morning, noon, and night. It became an obsession. I began scouring the Internet for new recipes and ingredients to try. Ice cream gave way to make room in the freezer for bags of frozen mango. In the pantry, the Cheetos ceded shelf space to chia seeds.
I found myself searching every grocery store in town for goji berries. Most of the people who worked there had never heard of them. When I asked one clerk where they had the goji berries, he answered, “aisle seven, next to the eyes of newt.”
I’ve now grown more attached to my Nutribullet than a heroin addict to his needle and spoon. I have nightmares of the motor burning out and waiting all night in the rain for the Triple-B to open.
These things should really come with an 800 number printed on them, just like the casino billboards.