Let me squeeze the oranges!

When someone is sick with malaria and asks for orange juice, you get them orange juice.  In Haiti, that means walking to the outdoor market down the street, purchasing oranges (in Haiti, they are actually green, but we don’t call them greens J), taking a little detour to explore some previously unseen places, and then heading back to continue the orange juice making process.  I washed the oranges with Fab, and then bleach water.  Mago showed us how to cut a small part of the peel away from the center of the orange using a horribly dull knife, and then cutting it in half in preparation for the juicer.  Ruth got this job because it involved the very dull knife.  I got the juicer job because honestly, it felt really good to squish and push the juice out of the oranges today.  So Ruth peeled and cut, and I squeezed and juiced.  Pretty soon, we had a good amount of juice, to which Mago added a splash of water.  She wanted to add a butt load of sugar, but we stopped her at about a third of a cup.  I stirred and stirred; we put a chunk of ice in it, and set out to deliver the juice.

As I stood there juicing the oranges, I talked with Mago and Soeur Content.   I explained to them that in the United States, if you want orange juice, you drive to the store and buy it.  How incomprehensible to my friends here.  And after tasting the fresh-squeezed juice, I wonder why too.