Chug it or chew it: How do you like your greens?

When I open the freezer, out spill Costco industrial-sized bags of spinach, blueberries and chopped bananas. Blocking access to cereal and crackers in the pantry cupboard are large sacks of “supergreens,” protein powder, and barley. My husband, whose idea of a nutritious lunch is goopy grilled American cheese, potato chips, and a chaser of gummed spice drops, and whose fantasy fruit juice is Dr Pepper, has experienced a conversion: He is swallowing large green smoothies for his midday meal.

“At least it’s not red convertibles and younger women,” commented a friend when I was explaining my theory that this is Brad’s version of an age crisis; he turns sixty in a few months and is concerned that he never ingests enough fruit and vegetables. Suddenly, whispers like “cancer” and “heart disease” –the current subject of his breakfast reading material--are seeping in through the cracks of his resolve to remain oblivious, forever young.

It’s not only a harmless acknowledgment of age, but also a healthy one; as we all know by now, produce fights all sorts of fatal disease. That’s the reason Brad is certain I am silently simmering with jealousy—green with envy, you might in this case say.

I am the queen of dark leafy green; my daily ceremonial salad occurs in a wooden bowl that serves eight. It brims with organic cabbage, spinach, collards, kale, cilantro, mushrooms, and broccoli. A day doesn’t pass before some seasonal addition appears on the supermarket shelf and it’s in my mix. Needless to say, I invest a substantial amount of time both in preparation and ingestion of the contents of this behemoth bowl.

I must admit that when the first bag of super greens arrived UPS, I was intrigued. I hated to confess; didn’t care to succumb to the trendy. But any food product carrying a label with the word combination “super” and “green” was impossible to ignore. My daughter was visiting at the time and chided, “Oh Mom…can you really resist such powerful antioxidants?” I assured her I could.

“She won’t be able to stand it; she won’t hold off for long before she’s dipping into the bag,” challenged my husband who at last felt the right to wield nutritional superiority over my healthy eating habits. I vowed that I would.

You see, I like to chew my food; I garner a great sense of satisfaction when I masticate—the more the better. What does that say about me? Oral fixation? Tension release? Grinding to gain power over?

Brad, on the other hand, couldn’t be bothered. He would rather swirl soft and soupy than chomp down on substantial. He claims it’s a saliva thing—that he produces little of it and hence, most food seems dry. I have determined that it’s an outcropping of his calm demeanor; he refuses to succumb to the sort of anxiety that generates the gnashing of teeth.

“I couldn’t eat your salad to save my life,” he groans. “But I can drink it!”

On the bar counter rests the high-powered machine that pulverizes anything that grows. He shops for his own ingredients, makes and cleans the mixer himself, and his sense of pride reminds me of the day I made my first monster salad.

Shhhh….Don’t tell him I’ve been topping my veggies with a sprinkle of his supergreens.