Kevin Page: I know just the place for breakfast ...

By Kevin Page

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A kale smoothie may be just what the doctor ordered but it isn't to everyone's taste. Photo / File
A kale smoothie may be just what the doctor ordered but it isn't to everyone's taste. Photo / File

I've been away on a course in Wellington for a week leaving Mrs P and Boomerang Child to face the trials and tribulations of the world alone.

I have to say they have coped admirably. The lawns are tidy, the dog has been exercised, Minder and The Sweeney recorded for me off UKTV - it's a nostalgia thing - and the fridge is full.

Well, when I say full I mean there isn't much space left on the shelves.

That's because in among the fridge staples like milk, cheese, salad stuff (biggest con in history so don't get me started on lettuce) there is a bit of gloopy, oily, green stuff.

In fact, there's rather a lot of gloopy, oily green stuff. All in individual glasses and containers.

I sensed a set up when I returned, somewhat jaded, from my course the other night and opened the fridge.

Obviously the correct question to pose would have been: "Wow, what's all this stuff? It looks amazing!" Whereupon Mrs P and/or Boomerang Child would have kept me up for another hour explaining how they made the gloopy, oily, green fluid.

I was somewhat intrigued as to whether it was a drink, some organic wallpaper paste or, in fact, whether my girls had gone all criminal on me and were cooking up some form of liquid cannabis for the Rotorua underworld. But I was tired. Fatigue got the better of me and I decided the question and explanation could wait.

The next morning, like in some science fiction movie where the deadly organisims rapidly multiply, spill out of the top-secret secure facility and eventually take over all of New York, the gloopy, oily, green stuff in my fridge had multiplied.

The reason being Boomerang Child had made me a batch for breakfast.

"So," I thought to myself as I peered into the glass I had been given. "Question answered. This is a breakfast smoothie".

Now, as anyone who knows me will testify I am not slow in coming forward when it comes to food.

In the not too distant past I could dive into a smorgasbord and not come up for days.

Nothing particularly to be proud of there and my health suffered.

Nowadays, thanks to a variety of things, particularly Mrs P's insistence on healthier eating without being insanely manic about it, I have managed to increase my life expectancy to the point where I should at least be able to finish this column and hopefully a few more beyond.

I have also been able to familiarise myself with smoothies.

For those of a certain age unfamiliar with the concept you basically throw a whole load of stuff into a blender and whizz it round until it's smooth. Hence the name smoothie.

An aside here. I wonder what would have happened if the inventor had whizzed it round and the substance looked, well, crap. Would I be writing today about having a Breakfast Crappy?

But I digress.

So. A green, gloopy, oily, smoothie has been made for me by my daughter and, like a good parent I am going to drink it and love it.

Even though it may be the worst thing I've ever tasted.

Even though my eyeballs may turn inside out and my tongue twist back on itself and try to retreat down my throat.

Even though my daughter is 25 and I had hoped the days of drinking stuff like cold Bisto gravy and saying it was the best "coffee" ever made for me would have stopped when she was 6, I'm diving in.

Oh God.

It's so hard to smile and say nice things when your throat is trying to hurl an invader out through your mouth.

I know if I can get it down I'll be OK but now I feel as green as the gloopy stuff.

"Fantastic," I reassure Boomerang Child who has waited, excitedly for the review.

"I might just save the rest till later," I say as I start to wonder whether I'll make it through the day or indeed to the lavatory.

"No worries," she says as she rattles off the ingredients which includes something called kale, this week's "new superfood".

"I'll make some more tomorrow."

And they say there's nowhere for visitors to have breakfast in Rotorua. Come to my place. I've got just the stuff for you.

Kevin Page has been a journalist for 34 years. He hasn't made enough money to retire after writing about serious topics for years so he's giving humour a shot instead.

- ROTORUA DAILY POST

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