Rethinking conventional wisdom

I LIKE EATING WEIRD food, but I never thought doing so would be fatal.

I suppose I should qualify just how and in what manner my diet is so peculiar. Truth be told, it follows the Law of the Conservation of Scrumptiousness.

Simply put, if two food items taste good independent of each other, they will taste just as good if they’re mixed together, or at least as good as the least delectable food item.

This sort of thinking brought us smoothies, the BLT, and anything Wolfgang Puck ever fused in the kitchen. It also gave us peanut butter pizza and the abominable Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper.

But I thought this philosophy had finally come to fruition with root juice.

It all started when I decided to imbibe my previous trademark beverage, from an old Baxter family recipe: swamp muck. Family legend dates this back to a mid-60s vacation road trip back from Oklahoma.

A hamburger joint along Route 66 featured a soda of the same name, and so — in fond remembrance — my father approximated the brew with a mixture of root beer and orange soda, the proportions since perfected through the years.

In my first few months of school, I decided to make a glass of the drink, but I was nearly foiled when I found the orange soda syrup had run low. Quickly improvising, I substituted orange juice for Sunkist.

And so root juice was born and I’ve had it twice every day after school is in session for the past two years. I have had root juice in our very own dorm cafeteria.

However edible the entrée provided in the cafeteria, I can always count on root juice to cheer up my day.

It brings up all sorts of interesting topics. I must’ve learned more about science at the dinner table while eating with chemistry majors than in the entire course of my lower-division general education.
For example:

“Benzite is a chemical that in large enough amounts can kill. It’s actually formed when you combine sodium benzoate, a preservative, with oranges.”

“Kill?”

“Benzite is actually very carcinogenic.”

“What uses that preservative?”

“I dunno. I know some sodas use it.”

I couldn’t find the words to speak for several minutes. The empty glass that just a few minutes ago held the root juice seemed to cast a cloud over the table, at least on my end.

This chemical was more deadly than dihydrogen monoxide could ever be, and I consumed it on a regular basis.

When she realized that I was staring at the upturned, empty glass, she started laughing. For some reason, I didn’t find it quite so funny.

Would I have to stop drinking root juice? Maybe, if I stop now, I might live another year or two before some horrible protrusion grows out of my hips — after all, root juice goes straight to the hips — or maybe I should try to combat my future cancer with periodic CAT scans.

When I stopped sobbing in fear of shuffling off this mortal coil before my time, I entirely accepted my fate. I don’t know if any of this is true or even if the root beer I drank even uses sodium benzoate.

Apathy about my imminent demise suddenly became the best sort of route.

I made myself another glass as I left the cafeteria. I might as well enjoy myself on my way out.

Of course, this just might cause me to reconsider the Law of the Conservation of Scrumptiousness.

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