We had discovered a Breville Juice Fountain in the kitchen downstairs.
The first day we tried it Barret erred on the side of vegetables. It didn’t have to taste good, it just had to taste healthy. Whole bushels of carrots, beetroots and celery were minced till they bled sherbet-colored blood and their fibrous structures tossed aside like pencil shavings. He tossed in a hunk of ginger and, as an afterthought, an apple. Barret loved it but I wanted more sweetness.
The following day, we made juice for breakfast. We wanted to impress our guests with our best blend yet. In an effort to achieve maximum vitamin potential, Barret and our friend Cade decided not to peel the oranges or the grapefruit. After six or seven citrus had been tossed in they added a few stalks of rhubarb.
The juicer whirrrred and a fine mist of arterial spray shot out every time Barret raised the plunger. The result: hypnotically tropical colors with a foamy maroon head.
It was disgusting.
The rind was so incredibly tart it coated our mouths like an extremely tannic and concentrated red wine. It settled in our bellies like lead.
“Man, I am feeling all the toxins being released from my body!” Cade exclaimed. Barret nodded in solemn agreement.
I laid down on my bed and clutched my stomach. “Sure it’s not food poisoning?”
About Breville Juice Fountains