It takes days upon days for an orange to become an orange. It begins as a bridal-white bud imbued with an intoxicating scent. Time, sunshine, time, water, time -these in unhurried fashion are what coax the bud into this sweetly dimpled orb.
There’s nothing quite like a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice and yet most of us are content enough to grab a bottle of Simply Orange out of the fridge on busy mornings. But lately I have begun to crave the real deal. And so I have taken advantage of having a family of orange trees on our property and have begun to pick this year’s harvest to make juice in the mornings.
Convenience makes life easier but it robs us of the appreciation we should have for the beauty and treasure of raw creation. It is convenient to grab stuff out of the fridge, like orange juice, but oh the things we miss when we do: the walk down the hill to get the oranges, the dew on your shoes, the smell of wet grass, the sound of birdsong above your head, the blast of fragrance when you cut the orange open and it bleeds sticky sweetness over your fingers.
You have to exert some effort to squeeze your own juice without the aid of conveniences. And you have to realize you will need to cut up more than one orange for a cup of juice. Several, in fact. And it will take a few minutes.
Three oranges later I had barely six ounces. And I downed this cup in five seconds. But oh oh oh oh – the taste. I would describe it here but it would be like trying to describe chocolate to someone who’s never had it. It took months for those oranges to grow and I consumed them in mere minutes. But that is not the point. It’s not how long it took to make this juice and how quickly I consumed it, it’s how personal the experience was and how sweetly memorable. . .