Fuji’tude Juice

I went to sleep with two bottles of Riesling and now there’s Riesling on my breath and when I got out of bed this morning, my mouth was dry and by mistake, I banged my head on the headboard and tripped over my Birkenstocks and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad hangover. At breakfast, the Bedfellow ate a Cortland apple and my Facebook friends posted photos of delicious brunch, but all I had was a cup of black coffee before I started to feel queasy. I think I’ll move to Paris and stop drinking. At the gym, I could only do twenty minutes on the elliptical and heave the kettle ball once before my stomach started hurting and the pretty people looked at me in the pretty gym clothes. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad hangover. I don’t even know why they call them kettle balls. 

I could tell because my postwoman left another notice on my door to pick up a package, even though she knew I was home. “I hope you get fired,” I said to her. “I hope you don’t get your packages delivered on time and have to drive four miles through a part of town comprised mainly of package stores and abandoned cars to get your mail.” Then I went to sleep and woke up with boozy drool all over my pillow. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad hangover. 

When I got to the post office, only one of the packages was there. “But what about my lavender and leather-scented candle?” I said, “Or my Edison bulb?” The postman shook his head. “Come back tomorrow,” he said, and I said, “Screw you, next week I’m moving to Paris.” On the way back, a rusted Toyota with a peeling ‘Keep America American’ bumper sticker cut me off, and I called my Dad to tell him I was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad hangover, but he didn’t listen. He also said not to fool around with the phone in the car, but I think I called Paris while I was yelling at the Toyota.
It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad hangover. 

I ate an apple and had to wear my bathrobe to sleep. I hate sleeping in my bathrobe. I opened up my package. Inside were four flavors of ‘tude juice, cold-pressed varietal apple juice from Washington. I drank the Fuji’tude because I was dehydrated and cranky, and it tasted like fresh apples with a hint of ripe banana sweetness and an earthy, crisp aftertaste. It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad hangover, but the juice helped. The Bedfellow says some hangovers are like that, even in Paris. Sigh. All Alexanderisms aside, this was a wonderful juice, a really fine introduction into varietal craftsmanship. I thought it would be fun to drink a flight alongside my bachelor dinner, a recovery meal of Riesling-roasted chicken with lemon sea salt, thyme, rosemary, lime-agave syrup, crushed almonds, and cranberries. It paired beautifully with Granny’tude, both apt for the snap of this tart, light libation and my Bubbi’s texting savoir faire. Now, back to fighting the beast.

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