My dad has a thing about fruit juice. He drinks gallons of the stuff. These days he goes for, you know, actual juice from actual fruits, but for a long time it was “fruit juice” with, you know, actual fruits in the picture on the carton.
A few years ago, I watched my dad remove a jug from the fridge and pour himself an icy-cold glass of bright red liquid. He fell into his easy chair to drink it and read and pontificate to anyone within earshot, as usual. Dad sipped the “juice” over the course of about 15 minutes, grimacing after every swallow and commenting, “Dreadful stuff!” before hoisting himself up and heading back to the kitchen. Curious, I followed him and watched him take the jug out of the fridge to serve himself another glass. It tweaked my brain a little that the label said ‘Indian River’ and had a picture of an orange on it, but I wanted to ask him something so I didn’t stop to think about it. “Hey, Dad, why in the world are you getting more of that juice when you just finished saying it was ‘dreadful stuff’?”
My mom looked up from whatever Laura-Ingallsy task she was doing, probably baking bread or pressing grapes for jelly. “Leighton!” she said, alarmed. “I told you yesterday, that’s hummingbird food!”
That’s my dad. PhD from Cambridge University and everything.