To avoid washing the floor last night, I drove to the store and bought orange juice. Not an entire gallon, just a single serving, with medium pulp. Given the option, I would have chosen maximum pulp, but there was none to be found. Knowing the consequences, I raised the container to my winter-chapped lips and let the bittersweet texture roll through my mouth, down my parched throat, and into my acid-loathing stomach.
You see, a number of years ago I was diagnosed with acid reflux and have had to cut back on a lot of the things I love in order to appease my volcanic digestive system. While I have not forsaken my daily breakfast of apple slices and peanut butter, I have ruefully traded my coffee for tea (which is still a no-no), switched to a lower zest salsa, and given up a lot of mint and chocolate. I have not had orange juice since I don’t know when.
Sitting in my car, I tipped back the last of the nectar, savoring every single drop. Yet, even as I licked a tiny bit of pulp from the rim, memories flooded back to the best juice I have ever tasted. Whether from the corner store carton or a vat homemade by the village women, my taste buds have never received such treat as when I was in the Dominican Republic. While mulling over juice, other memories seeped in, too; not all happy, but all worthwhile.
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