Carrot Juice

Every once in a while during my childhood, my mother would go on a “juicing” spree. If it grows in a garden, she’s probably liquefied it at some point or another. A perennial favorite, however, was fresh carrot juice. Some people have fond memories of waking up to the smell of pancakes or bacon-and-eggs, but my most nostalgic breakfast memories are of carrot juice. (Well, that and “panukaku” [sp?], but that’s another story.)

I reckon the juicing genes must skip a generation, since I never had much inclination to make juice out of my produce. Edward, on the other hand, has quite a knack for it. When I left him in his chair to get a rag the other day, I came back to discover that he had pilfered a carrot from my plate – reaching nearly two feet in the process, don’t ask me how – and had begun to experiment with his new acquisition. Carrot juice, anyone?

I’m not sure what was going on in his head, but that much is hardly unusual these days. Little Eddiefloofers gets rather more imaginative every day. Just yesterday, in fact, he was wrestling with a dish towel he had snuck out of a drawer (pillaging and looting are other knacks of his). He kept trying to get it around his shoulders with some very particular goal in mind, and it took me some time to figure out what that goal was. After some frustration and near meltdowns, he finally managed to convey to me what he wanted:
Honestly, this guy cracks me up. The Toweled Avenger? Captain Dishcloth? I’m not sure where he gets all his supercute superpowers. Must be all the carrot juice.