Here Comes the Rain Again: A Post About Orange Juice and Rain

Hand-squeezed OJ, with separation

I woke up 'naturally' today (meaning no alarm), at a reasonable time for feeding animals, having breakfast myself, and getting to work on time. This is pretty surprising, given that I was up past midnight, listening to what the weather forecasters called "gale-force" winds and rain.

Here comes the rain again

When I opened my refrigerator on this rainy, final day of February, I saw this unusual - but welcome - pitcher of fresh squeezed OJ.

I don't drink OJ in the morning because it gives me an upset stomach. This OJ has been in the fridge since a friend brought over 2 bags of oranges sometime last week. I realized that if I didn't use it soon it might go to waste.

My desire to have some orange juice thus determined my breakfast: half of a banana, cup of tea, half of a bagel with cream cheese, second cup of tea. All things that would counteract the effects of orange juice.

I don't usually have bagels and cream cheese in my house either. One of my own nicknames in my head is "Bagel Whore." I become a raging crazy person when it comes to bagels - I *LOVE* them. I will break laws for a good bagel (though no one has ever before known to use this temptation to bend me to their will). In this case, bagels were on a list of foods my niece liked to eat for breakfast. Somehow there were two bagels left after her stay with us. Maybe I'm getting better.

The banana was eaten as I fed Jeremy-the-Bird and Olieo Dog. Tea was poured, and the bagel was toasting, so I got out my pretty little gilt edged glasses for juice.

Left: Stirred and shaken  Right: Poured off the top

I had several thoughts that I don't ever remember having before as I opened the drawer to extract a long handled wooden spoon for stirring the OJ: 

What if I DON'T stir it?
What will it taste like?
Does juice at the top taste different from juice at the bottom?
Is pulp the only difference?

Seriously if you've already done this experiment, I can't do anything but apologize for wasting your time reading this blog post.
I decided not to stir.


It felt reckless.
I had known my whole life that you MUST stir the orange juice before pouring it out.
Now, suddenly I was considering a taboo act.
The rebel heretic every one who knows me, knows that I am, was going to drink unstirred OJ.

I am gonna try the thin, colorless, unshaken orange juice.

Falling on my head like a memory

I have no memory of ever tasting OJ, but I know what I like.
(Don't I?)

Tasting orange juice isn't exactly like tasting fine wines, or tasting different types of honey. Although the liquid in the two glasses looks quite different, the flavor is more the same than different.

ASIDE: Okay, in THAT way it IS like tasting fine wines. Good wines all taste more like grapes than OJ. But when comparing fine wines to two-buck-chuck I've found myself thinking, Is this even made from grapes?  Some bargain barrel bottles I've tasted do not really resemble wine.

The pale juice with almost no orange color had a consistency like whiskey. Slightly thick. Very silky on my tongue. Huge flavor. I wasn't expecting THAT! It was Taaaaasty! The natural sugar was creating the thin but still syrupy texture. There was a bite of acid, and a HUGE flavor of orange. Tart, but with no bitterness.

In hindsight, I think I assumed the separated top liquid would be tart, bitter, acidic - nasty. Stirring was obviously the way to get a sweet, balanced OJ. Turns out, Noooooooo.

In comparison, the richly colored, "orange" orange juice, with LOTS of pulp (the way I have always THOUGHT I liked it) tastes like an altogether different substance. The heavy pulp content seems to confuse my poor tongue: Ack! Do I swallow or chew?! The chunky liquid is much more bitter, I now assume due to the inclusion of pulp and the higher levels of bitter pith.

Colorless, no-pulp OJ is THE BOMB.

Falling on my head like a new emotion

At 41, I feel like I understand a little secret about orange juice that I've never known. It may be an inconsequential thrill, but it is a thrill, and that thrill is mine!

No one has ever told me this information. Maybe not many other people know either. But you know now. Go forth. Squeeze fresh OJ. Drink the good bit, the pale, clear, not-orange juice. Use the rest for baking or marinating.

And while you are at it, let anything in your life - a wonderful, seasonal rain storm - encourage you to ask questions about anything you've 'always done.' Be that rebel heretic with me, against the most minute of daily practices. Maybe you will see, feel, taste, smell or hear something beautiful, wonderful and special in your day, even if it is just drinking a glass of orange juice.

Rainy Courtyard

Blooming Succulent

Saturday

Very low key Saturday. First one in a long while. I feel like I've been running around and worrying much too much. I'm going to stay abed until beach time (low tide) and let my spirit rest. 

A chorus of my inner voices berate me for being lazy and fat. For not cleaning the garage, the birdcage, the laundry. for not gardening, exercising, writing and scooping dog shit.

Hey! STFU! I cleaned the toilet. I fed the animals, I put away some clean laundry! It does not all have to get done NOW.

I exhaust myself with the berating and fighting the berating. I think I will read a favorite book and take a nap.

Synopsis for my NaNoWriMo novel - Maybe.

I promise nothing, but this MIGHT be a synopsis that will have something to do with whatever I end up writing this month. 

After a year full of the deaths of friends and family, Janette was tired, emotionally hollowed out, and in need of closure. Or Fun. Or Both. So when her pagan friend Allie invited her to a Wiccan "ritual" with costumes, dancing, and an introduction to a hot guy she wanted to meet, it seemed like a good alternative to a night alone handing out (scarfing down) Halloween candy. As it turned out, Janette's dead were not as ready as she was to say farewell.Now on the wrong side of the veil between the worlds, Janette has to navigate across the Isle du Mort, making peace with "beloved dead" who want to weigh her down with rummicube rules, very odd favors, and midlife crisis advice. If she can make peace with every dead person she has ever known - and FAST - she might make it back to the world of the living in time for her date.

Jump from a good platform

high dive, 60's, a photo by Jimmy's Classic Drive-in on Flickr.

I only jumped from a very-high-dive platform once. I have no memory of where, or why or how anyone talked me into it, but I remember doing it.

I also remember wanting desperately NOT TO.

During the olympics I sometimes catch the diving, and although I admire the sport, watching it requires me to actively quiet a visceral cringing. It feels like every internal organ I've got is sandwiched between a convulsing spinal column and the shriveling of every skin cell covering my body. It is a recoil against height from the inside and out.

So now that I've decided to "leap into" writing more publicly, and chosen to do it from the tall, supportive backs of persons I know and admire, utilizing the very tall platforms of OTHER folks I know and admire...I'm having that moment where I'm high up in the air, and I know SOMETHING will go wrong.

My writing will be truncated. My intended message will fall flat. I'll write too much, or not enough. I'll look like an idiot...or worse, panic and take someone down with me into a fatal bellyflop.

So, I'm visualizing the climb, the foot-thick, solid, stable, grainy concrete platform, my toes are off the edge, and I'm just telling myself over and over, "It's just water."