Welcome to my little polymathic corner of the internet. I write about just about everything, but I have an especially soft spot for food, cats, Harry Potter, and embracing the crazy unpredictability of life.

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The Greenest Green of All the Greens: How to Make Wheatgrass Juice Without a Juicer

The Greenest Green of All the Greens: How to Make Wheatgrass Juice Without a Juicer


A while back, we contemplated upgrading from our NutriBullet to the Holy Grail of blenders – a Vitamix. However, Joe (always the sensible one) talked me down from the all-in-one stable-full of horsepower ledge and convinced me that all we really need is our NutriBullet. Around the same time, we decided to grow a lawn. In our house. Using an aquarium light and adjustable shelving from Home Depot, we (well … Joe) constructed a greenhouse/wall decor installation.

At the height of Winter’s fury, we had a lush, chlorophyll-tinted oasis. The cats were in heaven.

Beautiful, green wheatgrass. We would cut a bunch each morning for our shakes, and even feed some to the furry ones. Despite the fibrous nature of the grass, we found that the NutriBullet pulverized it splendidly.

The only problem: We couldn’t keep up with it. Before we knew it, the wheatgrass was taking over. Something had to be done. A mass harvest was organized. We ended up with a gallon-sized bag bursting with freshly cut wheatgrass.

A smaller, sandwich-sized bag lasted a little over a week, freshness-wise, so we knew we had to come up with a plan for the much larger harvest that took up about half of our top refrigerator shelf.

And thus, we made our own wheatgrass juice – without a juicer.

By the by, have you seen a juicer? They’re HUGE. And while the mechanics and physics involved are quite impressive, we simply do not have room for one in our tiny condo. Plus, I’m not a big fan of single-use kitchen gadgets. Excuse me for a moment while I hide my tomato knife.

So out came the sieve, and the big bowl, and the funnel. We were juicin’ it old school.

The colors – I wish you could’ve seen the shades of green that graced my kitchen counter. From the fresh, lemony green of the newly cut blades, to the deep, bottomless abyss of dark green in the juice itself, to the palest hue of green left over in the pulp.

It was everything I never knew I always loved about plants.

Watching the slurry separate – the nutrient-dense, chlorophyll-packed juice on the bottom, the foamy, fibrous cellulose on the top – was like watching a Bob Ross show in reverse. The perfectly painted trees devolving into their base parts: white and green. Back to the source.

It sometimes surprises me how much I prefer doing something the “old fashioned” or “long” way: It’s as if with each extra step, I further envelop myself in the process. I know it that much more intimately.

It’s like cooking a box of pasta versus making it from scratch: When you’ve cracked the egg, massaged the dough, rolled out the delicate sheets, the essence of it enters you somehow, and in turn your essence enters it. Just try to not taste the difference.

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