I don’t like to drink my calories. The exception to this rule is coffee (my current fave is a decaf soy latte with one pump of pumpkin- tastes like Thanksgiving!) and chocolate peanut butter milkshakes from Iceburg in Walla Walla (although, it seems that my current vegan choices may limit my Iceburg consumption. Something tells me they don’t use coconut bliss…)
Water is truly my beverage of choice. Every once in awhile I’ll get my green tea fix, but otherwise it’s me and good ol’ H2O.
This is much to Matty B’s dismay. If you were to x-ray him right now, you’d see root beer running through his veins. He loves juice of almost any kind, soda is his friend and he’s more addicted to coffee than I am.
The kidlets are no better. We sneakily water down their juice ration, serving a very plain cocktail of 50% apple juice, 50% water. I think they’re catching on. Every once in awhile they’ll get a hold of an untampered with juice box and it’s impossible to pry it from their sticky fingers (sticky, most likely because those blasted juice box straws are so unpredictable. Who invented these things? Maybe the same evil man who created Sponge Bob. You know how I feel about that guy.)
There is middle ground to be found. It comes in the form of freshly juiced apples. Apples that we picked!
My beautiful sister helped.
She also modeled her atrocious pants. It’s a good thing she’s cute. These pants are blinding. (love you sis!)
The Breville returned. She was starting to feel neglected after the juicing fail, but the girl got a second chance.
She didn’t disappoint.
Does all that foam on top gross you out? Yeah, me too. Thankfully, Matty B was disgusted enough with it that he skimmed it off. Thanks for taking one for the team, Matty B!
The finished product? Delicious! No added sugars, just pure, unadulterated juice! The apple taste is so clean and bright! This isn’t a juice to guzzle – it’s a juice to savor.
I love it because it’s healthy.
The kiddos love it because it isn’t watered down:)
Matty B loves it because it’s juice.
The only thing we don’t love are Aunt B’s pants.
Oh well. It’s 3 for 4.