The Smoothie Nazi

The smoothie thing started awhile ago. The insanely early risers in the house would set off into the sunrise to walk the dogs and ride their bikes, while the rest of us slept. Upon their return, juice would be squeezed, kiwi and mangoes cut, frozen spinach and strawberries extracted from the freezer. Over time it became a ritual shared between G and the fourth little traveler. I had no idea what was going on in the kitchen, but I was always an extremely grateful recipient of my morning smoothie, proudly served to me in a cocktail glass, bedside, by Henry Hotdog.

“Here you go Mum, this one’s my best one yet!”

When G announced he was heading off to New York I told the 4th little traveller that he’d have to include me in on the smoothie act and show me how it was done. Little did I know, it was very much a one man show. Its star was very fond of the limelight, the power of distribution, and the control over marketshare. The Smoothie Nazi was born.

On the first morning I was suitably impressed with how The Smoothie Nazi could assemble the juicer attachment to the Kitchen Aid.

“Wow, that’s impressive!”

He barely cracked a smile.

“Can you get me a plastic bag please?” It was then that I realized I was an assistant. A sous, rather than a main player. There were times that he almost sounded irritated by my lack of smoothie knowledge. I was an amateur, my inexperience was noted. I was there solely to slice and dice with tools that he was yet to gain approval for.

After I’d finished slicing the oranges and dicing the bananas and kiwi fruit, I began to load them into the blender.

“Stop!”

I jumped with the urgency of the request. Confused and a little terrified by what I could have possibly done wrong.

“I load the blender. You just cut. I put the fruit in the blender.”

“But you’re juicing? I can help make it faster if I start this bit now?”

“I. Load. The. Blender.” The Smoothie Nazi was (luckily) smirking with his demands.

I muttered something under my breath about dictators and Napoleon complexes and reached for a lycée.

“NO! We don’t put them in, just stick to the fruit I said.”

I backed away slowly from the fruit bowl.

This week I’ve watched the smallest person in the house seize a little bit of control. We love his smoothies and he knows it. Each little traveller sits each morning trying to bargain for a little extra in their cup. The Smoothie Nazi balances out the servings, and nods along with their approval. When they mess up? No Smoothie For You!

So this morning, after a week in the kitchen together, I figured our working relationship had matured. I tried again to hurry things along, help out with the process. The smoothie Nazi’s eyes narrowed as he stood at the juicer, watching me add the bananas and kiwi to the blender jug. When we were done, I poured his into a cup. He took a sip, winced and said “Nope, something about this one doesn’t taste as good.”

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