My father bought a juicer because he was in the process of losing 60 pounds. Good use…healthy. Better use…sangria. Although Dad kept the weight off, he quickly tired of juicing, which was not a huge or unwelcome surprise. I think my sister got his old bread machine. And since he doesn’t do cheap, I inherited a juicer that’s motor sounds like a plane taking off.
When he gave it to me, I said, “So this is the best juicer money can buy, huh?” He said, “Nope, they were out. That’s the second best juicer money can buy.” But his description of the process was so tedious and time-consuming that it’s just been sitting in my cabinet. The prospect of good health surely didn’t spur me to dust it off, but the prospect of good sangria for Thanksgiving—yeah, baby! Here are my apples: Here is my juice:
My father exaggerates so much I expected a tablespoon; but not bad, there’s at least over a cup. I forgot how pained he is by the smallest of chores. It’s actually fun. The whole apple fits in the chute, and when you push it down, it makes a great swoosh sound as it explodes into juice and foam. Oh, how my sister and I will be toasting to our father’s ever-coming and quickly-forgotten obsessions over fresh sangria tomorrow night. Cheers, Stacy! I’m juicing oranges and cranberries next.