My Bin is a sucker for those free food samples at supermarkets while I tend to turn my nose up at them: god only knows how long those things have been sitting there. We’re in Rustan’s Fresh supermarket at Rockwell ostensibly to get healthy ”“ er, make that “healthy-er” food after the eating orgy that was the holidays.
We manage to get a block of tofu and some assorted greens into our shopping basket but then a loaf of white bread (is white bread healthy?) and a pack of dried mangoes (healthy?) wend their way in as well.
I’ve lost my Bin somewhere in the immediate vicinity. Despite my healthy intentions, I catch myself gazing at the meat section. Several special cuts put out for the holidays are still there, the crown roasts of pork, whole legs of lamb, and the cutely-named “military salute pork chops,” frenched center-cut rib chops positioned so that the bone tips face upwards in a jaunty “salute.”
Snapping myself out of my meat meditations, I find my Bin staring transfixed at a tall, odd-looking contraption. Designed to squeeze several oranges in one go, the globular fruits ride a Ferris wheel-like gizmo before being unceremoniously squashed ”“ or is it squeezed? Their golden liquid trickles into a container connected to a spout, the lever of which is pressed down by the attendant. Literally, orange juice coming out of a faucet and into a one-liter plastic bottle.
Zeroing in for a sale, the attendant hands my free-food-sample-sucker of a husband a small plastic cup of OJ (orange juice). He swigs it in and as if on cue, an automatic “mmm” escapes from his lips and he proceeds to order one bottle (P299), the equivalent of which — the attendant dutifully tells us — to the juice of 14-15 oranges. Still the skeptic, I protest, “But all the pulp is left behind!” In reply, the attendant removes a “drawer” from the orange-squeezing mammoth. Peering in, I cluck dismissively at the pathetically small amount of pulp I see.
Today at breakfast (where these photos are taken), my Bin is still swooning over his orange juice. “It doesn’t get any better than this,” he rhapsodizes as he glugs it down in between bites of baked macaroni. (My husband is not a grains and granola guy). I afford myself a tiny sip. Begrudgingly, I’ll admit that it’s great juice, giving even my favorite Florida’s Natural a run for its orange juice money. Sluicing through the mouth, the liquid makes me feel like I’ve just swallowed the sun, freshness I can feel. It’s sweet and as I swallow, the inimitable citrus flavor comes through pricking the roof of my mouth. “Ahhh!” I want to say.
As far as healthy goes, this is good stuff. I like to think that each sip is imbuing my sugar-saturated/coffee-hydrated system with vitamins. Plus, with each navel orange costing P26 each (at least in Rustan’s Fresh, Rockwell) this bottle of orange may be a better buy. As I ponder my Bin’s glass of OJ, I realize that orange juice isn’t really orange but more of a mellow yellow.
But I still miss the pulp.