#142
I try to medicate my mind with citrus. With zingy juice that shocks the brain into submission. A bright spot in the winter months, even if here the sun shines instead of snows. The citrus grows in abundance in the back yard, front yard, yards down the street, yards across town. We give it away, unable to consume it all, for fear of a vitamin C explosion in our bodies. Instead, I mix it and match it, hoping to find the combo that works, that helps.
One grapefruit, one lemon, one mandarin, with a float of blood orange.
Two grapefruit, one lemon.
Three mandarins, one lemon.
Three oranges.
Six oranges, 1/2 a lemon.
Three grapefruits, gin, Campari, shake with ice.
Better than coffee. Better than tea (not really, this is a lie).
The mornings see me outside in pyjamas in the backyard. The dog is doing the rounds of the grounds, his business while I use the clippers to snap off a few orange and yellow globes. The juice is cold, but not fridge-cold, better this way than that. I wait, until the very last second to look at the phone.
When is the last second, I asked myself one morning.
There is cake left. The lemon one I baked this past weekend. Another way to use up the citrus. I eat a slice with yoghurt and let the dog lick the plate after. He is a dairy dog. One of the mountains, one for whom dairy, in all forms, will suit his taste. He goes back to the sofa, knowing that it will be a little bit before the juice hits my brain. Before the day can start. Before I can step outside.
Later, we spend the afternoons in the isolation of the backyard, enclosed, watching the birds. The afternoon medicine is sun. Maybe I peel an orange this time, instead of juice it. Maybe I insert a straw into the cut-off top of a lemon and see what I can get. Maybe the dog eats a late lunch. Maybe nothing works. Maybe it all works.
Maybe.