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Smooth Sailing

Smooth Sailing

Last updated on: January 10, 2018 at 11:28 pm by Mary Pezzulo

Smooth Sailing 2018-01-10T23:28:38-04:00 Mary Pezzulo

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I decided to be one of those insufferable people who drinks healthy smoothies.

Smoothies sound like a simple, healthful way to coax fruit and vegetables into my perpetually peevish belly. I could puree them with bananas and yogurt and other things easy for me to digest. And it would be an economical way to go through the frozen fruit I kept accumulating in the freezer because it looked like such a good value. Lately I found a box of high-protein smoothie starter powder at Kroger, among the things they’d mark down to tempt posh people who make New Years’ Resolutions. I took it as a sign from God. I bought the powder. I felt beautiful and sleek like Gwyneth Paltrow as I took it to the checkout counter.

I went into the kitchen to make a smoothie after my evening yoga routine. Yes, I practice yoga in the evenings because it helps me breathe better with my hiatal hernia. I also read Harry Potter and hug beech trees, so I’m sure Women of Grace are going to denounce me personally before long. I went into the kitchen after my evening yoga, a paragon of tranquility and calm, and I went to puree myself a healthful meal.

In order to assemble the blender, I had to clear its place near the only empty electric socket in the kitchen. That meant moving the crockpot which was cooling on the counter with potatoes and half a roast from dinner still in it. The roast was still slightly warm. I’ve watched enough episodes of Kitchen Nightmares to know that you never put anything warm into the refrigerator unless you want to die of food poisoning, so I put the roast and potatoes in an open Ziplock bag on top of the stove. I poured as much au jus from the roast into the bag as I could, because Rosie likes to eat it over rice. Then I went to wash the blender pitcher.

At some point I realized that the bag with the roast in it had flipped over, spilling about a quart of au jus all over the floor, and we were out of paper towels. Fortunately the kitchen is right next to the laundry room. I grabbed two dirty towels from the hamper and wiped up the whole spill with my foot while I finished drying the blender, making a mental note to ask Michael to wash the floor later that night.

I assembled my smoothie: protein powder, frozen fruit from Aldi, frozen kale from Wal Mart, that healthy green juice from Bolthouse that looks like vomit but tastes like banana bread. Rosie came downstairs asking for a snack of chips and Bolthouse Green Juice, which I served her. Then I found out that she expected to drink the Bolthouse and eat the chips upstairs in her bedroom, which is forbidden, and when she threw a fit I confiscated the snack again. I threw the juice into the blender, but I did not eat the chips.

“Why are there potatoes on the floor?” asked Rose.

I wiped up more spilled dinner.

The next step was to casually glance at the ingredient list on the frozen kale, and realize that Great Value brand kale “may contain wheat” which makes me sick for days.

Muttering to myself, I threw away my smoothie. I threw away the bag of frozen kale. I re-washed the blender pitcher as carefully as I could. I put in a second serving of powder and overpriced green slime juice. I opened the freezer to get more fruit, and as I did so, I was hit with an avalanche of sacks of frozen cauliflower vegetables I’d gotten on sale. Somehow, I caught all of them with my arms and shoulders before they hit the floor. I put them on the oily au jus-covered stove top next to the roast.

I pureed my smoothie, and poured it into a cup.

I put away the roast. I kicked the beefy towels into a pile in the middle of the kitchen.

I went to put away the frozen vegetables, but when I closed the freezer the sheer weight of them popped it back open and cascaded to the floor. A bag of cauliflower rice burst open, spraying nasty little frozen white caltrops all over me, the oil slick and the ruined towels.

I fled to the living room to write about it, wondering if I really ever needed to go back into my kitchen again.

I’ll bet this never happens to Gwyneth Paltrow.

(Image via Pixabay)

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