“BLEND ALREADY, YOU STUPID FUCKING VEGETABLES!!!”
• • •
It’s Day 7 of my chewless torture raw food cleanse and my shake game is on point.
The night before I gather all the veggies. They get separated into their recipe groups, then sliced, diced, and packaged for the next day.
As I wake the calming Bugs Bunny classical music Morning Song plays in my head. The sunshine peeks through the curtains and kisses my face as I stretch. I descend the stairs, gently brushing the sleep from my eyes, knowing everything is already prepared.
Veggie Team 1 goes in the juicer. Veggie Team 2 goes into the blender. Everything is going according to plan and today is going to be a great day.
• • •
That day was not today.
• • •
I hear my partner in the shower and sit bolt upright in bed.
SHIT.
I overslept and nothing is ready.
I stumble out of bed and almost break my neck on the stairs because I only have one pant leg on. My morning song is now The Flight of the Bumblebee.
Booting up the computer to look up today’s recipes I see it has chosen this ideal moment to do a Windows update.
I grab random vegetables from the fridge and push all the shit I was too lazy to put away yesterday to the side hoping for a miracle of counter space that never came.
I’m slicing. I’m dicing. There is green, orange, and yellow stuff flying everywhere. I am channeling the Swedish Chef from The Muppets as a chicken runs by in the background.
• • •
My shit-for-bricks blender is the kitchen equivalent of a demanding little troll. You must put the exact amount of solids, with the exact amount of liquid or it will not blend. And because it’s a total diva, it demands that you ‘Pulse’ first because blending directly is far too strenuous.
In today’s haste, I defied the blender gods and smashed everything in — all in one go. I couldn’t even get the lid on. And I forgot the protein powder.
I dump it on top and pack it down with a wooden spoon.
The blender kicks back and now I am a protein powdery ghost.
• • •
I pour almond milk into the already full container and stir the vegetable bedlam with a wooden spoon. The spoon emerges, coated in crumbly, soggy chunks, dripping a foul green slime.
My partner sees me, his eyes go big like saucers, and he retreats.
• • •
The ziplock bag the spoon was sitting on falls on the floor, sticky side down. The gummy, clumpy, hot mess of a blender lid slips from my hands and vomits on the wall before reuniting with the ziplock bag on the floor.
There is green, chunky, powdery, fart-smelling gunk everywhere. I am in a colon cleanser’s wet dream.
I add more water. The sticky, gelatinous mixture is finally starting to blend. I cross my fingers, hit “Liquify” and let it ride.
My partner pokes his head in and asks, “Is something on fire?”
I stop the blender and glare at him. He leaves to research blenders on Amazon.
I am alone in my Veggie Vendetta.
• • •
There is produce carnage on the ceiling, clogging the sink, on the wall, and inside my closet somehow. The stove looks like a protein powder sandbox.
I have kale stuck to the bottom of my foot. The beet juice stains look like I stabbed someone and dragged them across the kitchen.
This raw food/juice cleanse is over.
I’d rather die fat with clogged arteries than perish in this slow, leafy demise under the tyranny of vegetables.