One week from today, I’ll be cat-sitting. Four cats, eight days. They’ll ignore me for the most part, all except the outdoor cat named Ginger. Ginger will climb into my lap and fall asleep, which he did for the first time just over a year ago, much to his owners’ surprise. That put us about even, the previously standoffish Ginger and I, because I’d been a four-square cat hater before he broke the ice.
I know of only two places that sell fresh juice within a 60 mile radius of my kitchen. One is Coffee To A Tea in the West End. They sell carrot juice. The other is Green Sage in Asheville. They sell carrot juice, too, mixed with beet juice, apple juice or orange juice as desired. Neither place sells “green juice” — kale, spinach, wheatgrass and so on — probably because only hardcore juice fasters would buy it. I’ve never had wheatgrass juice, but I can say from experience that kale juice tastes like ass.
Being on a juice fast is kind of like being on life support. No juice meal staves off hunger for more than a couple of hours. All juice meals cause frequent urination. So you either carry juice with you everywhere you go or you stay close to a juicer. And a toilet. When I go a-cat-sitting next week, I’ll bring the juicer along.