EDITOR’S NOTE: Elise Haynes chronicles family life in her blog Haynes Family Yard Sale. The opinions stated in this article are solely her own and not those of St. George News.
I’m feeling disillusioned. You may be shocked to read this, but it turns out that you can’t trust everything you read on the internet. That Google—it’s just a gigantic crap shoot.
It all started with my New Year’s resolutions. I had this idea that I wanted to eat more healthy foods, so I made a goal to learn to sprout and juice wheatgrass at home. I’ve read that drinking a shot of wheatgrass juice is equivalent to eating two and a half pounds of vegetables, but without the agony of having to eat actual vegetables. The chlorophyll is good for your blood. It has a complete protein. It has antioxidants (like most consumers, I’m a sucker for a good antioxidant). It gives you x-ray vision and super strength. It can even get you more on your tax return.
Trust me, I Googled it.
About a week ago I planted a little tray of wheat sprouts in my kitchen. I watered it faithfully morning and night. I sang a lullaby to it every night and tucked it in. My children enjoyed watching it grow. This morning it was finally ready for the slaughter. I clamped my stainless steel manual juicer to the counter and snipped off a little pile of grass. My kitchen filled with the heady aroma of freshly-cut grass as I cranked and cranked on the juicer, mentally debating which initial I would embroider on my super suit. First initial? Last initial? Or something ambiguous, like a lightning bolt? Before I could make a firm decision my little shot glass was filled with the dark green juice.
I held my glass (which was actually my kid’s plastic cup, the smallest thing I could find) aloft, said a toast to my children (something generic about the future being as bright as our dreams—I don’t remember, I was just so anxious for my superpowers) and drained my cup in one shot.
The internet lied.
I drank the wheatgrass juice. I don’t have super strength or x-ray vision. I think I have just as many oxidants floating around in me as I did this morning. As nearly as I can tell, the only physical change I’ve noticed is that when I burp (yes, I burp—we’re all adults here) it smells exactly like a soccer field.
I’m not sure about this healthy eating thing, either. I have friends (and by friends I mean people who are honest about their burping) who have dabbled in what they call the raw diet. Have you heard of this insanity? Nothing baked. Nothing boiled. Nothing grilled. It is exactly what you’d think: raw food all of the time. I like my food baked. I like my food grilled, especially my cheeseburgers. I think eating over-processed convenience food is what separates us from the wild animals. That and tall electrified fences with coils of barbed wire on top.
I’m taking a stand. I do not enjoy the taste of grass. I’m tired of being bound by ill-thought out New Year’s resolutions. I’m disenchanted with the internet and its empty promises. From now on, I’m going to sit on my couch watching reruns of The Office, eating Chubby Hubby straight out of the carton with a humongous spoon. Or maybe I’ll give the wheatgrass a day or two to kick in. I don’t know.