My Ambrosia

I sit in my dimly lit room, the day's sun already expired. Winter is upon us now; the first snow happened last night as we stood freezing on a balcony getting air. Like a glove it slapped our faces, and funneling between the surrounding buildings, it whipped at our coats mercilessly. The winter is a time of profound coldness-- a feeling I personally abhor-- but paradoxically, also of warmth. In a battle against the elements, people don sweaters and they light fireplaces. Even metaphorically they are warm; season's greetings abound, and cheeriness permeates even the most frigid of hearts. Seasonal drinks become popular too, from hot chocolate to pumpkin spice lattes to hot toddies of all sorts. I'm enjoying a beverage as I write, but it isn't anything special like those. Or perhaps in a way, it is the most special of drinks.

Minute Maid is a company that makes juice. Maybe you've heard of them? Right now I am drinking their patented Fruit Punch blend, a concoction that the manufacturers claim is comprised of grape, pineapple and apple. I honestly couldn't parse out the individual flavours myself; maybe at one point it was possible, but to me now, I only taste one flavour: Fruit Punch. Remember in The Matrix when we learn how the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar sees lines of code on a monitor as a vivid image that the code is actually describing? I guess that's sort of like me with Minute Maid Fruit Punch; I've been drinking this shit so long that I can't see the inner workings of it anymore.


For as long as I can remember, perhaps traceable as far back as the womb, I have been drinking this brand of Fruit Punch. To be sure, it has remained a steadfast comrade in the Berger household through thick and thin. When as a child I climbed our Christmas tree and brought it crashing down? Minute Maid Fruit Punch was in a sippy cup not far from the distaster zone. The dinner after I graduated elementary school? Minute Maid Fruit Punch was on the table. A few weeks ago, when my brother told us that he had gotten engaged to his girlfriend? I'm pretty sure I was swallowing Minute Maid Fruit Punch as it happened.

As I've made clear, it's impossible for me to now separate myself from the drink, so on this matter I can only speculate, but I feel like the Punch is not objectionable in taste. Minute Maid certainly mixed some fruit together and added sugar and called it a day, but it gets the job done. The thoughts permeating my mind at present aren't about whether Minute Maid Fruit Punch is effective as a fruit punch, but moreso why it has (almost exclusively) been the drink that has filled our freezer for so many years on end. Certainly there are other types of juice? I'm almost confident I've had them at some point (though drinking experiences that don't contain Minute Maid Fruit Punch are mere fleas to the dog that is Minute Maid Fruit Punch drinking experiences; that is to say, periphery). I particularly love that on Minute Maid's website, they list their other punch varieties: we have Berry Punch, Cranberry Punch, Grape Punch, Mango Punch, Orange Guava Punch, Peach Punch, etc, etc. Yet for some reason, I was stuck getting Fruit Punch. Those others get pretty specific in their designations, but Minute Maid decided that it was best to simply call my variety "Fruit" Punch... It's like, they're not wrong, but it just lacks a certain air of caring.

I've drained the last of the glass now. How many ounces of it have I drank in my life? I'm certain that at points in my existence, I was consuming it at a higher frequency than I was water. We can safely assert that the quantity is more Fruit Punch than a man ever may need in his time. But could I stop drinking it, even if I wanted? I'm too far gone now; the Punch has become a part of me. When I am old and bedridden, breathing my last gasps, I will call for it, and taste that sweet nectar one last time.

Minute Maid Fruit Punch, you have been a good friend.