I love Orange Juice.
I really do.
I Love it. It’s tangy, refreshing… It’s easily the best color of the fruit juices, not orange as the title would imply, but a light, yellowish, creamy…beautiful.
I like to drink it with ice cubes in a small glass, the kind that’s wider than it is tall, almost a mug but not quite because of it’s translucence. It leaves a nice after taste that mixes well with other drinks, and the combination of orange juice and seltzer is perfect beyond description or reasonable belief. It’s almost the only thing I drink other than alcohol, and if I had to choose between the two I would pick orange juice in a heartbeat, in a fucking heartbeat.
I love it. I love it’s elegance, the casual dignity it exudes as it arcs from the Tropicana container down into the spherical top of glass, the way it shines even under fluorescent lights, I love how it’s a confident drink but not snobby or elitist, not urging you to take it to the edge or taste the difference, not espousing any attitude, or point of view. It merely is, it is the drink of the Zen state of mind.
I respect orange juice. As much as you drink it, it doesn’t dull its taste to the palate, it keeps on working, never stops refreshing. It doesn’t hide its origins; cover up what it is with a formula or a secret ingredient. Orange juice is a child of nature; it is of the tree.
However it is not a juice to be trifled with.
I fear orange juice.
If used properly and in conjunction with the correct orifice it will make your wildest beverage dreams come true, but if used incorrectly, if you try to play orange juice for a fool or simply forget it’s holiness it will get in your eye. It will get in your eye and burn you with its acid, and it will hurt.
Orange juice proves it over and over again, not with blind taste tests, but with tastiness, refreshing properties, and aesthetic beauty, that it deserves it’s place as king of the fruit juices, unchallenged and benevolent.