Once upon a time, in a more innocent age of jumbo corn burgers and jello salads, ailing Americans knew they didn't have to visit the doctor, they just needed to guzzle some orange juice.
It wakes up every day before 5 A.M., and is so thoughtful that it tiptoes around the apartment, looking for its sneakers, waking me only for emergencies, like this morning when it whispered, "Hey, babe, did you put my shorts in the wash, or what?" After it slammed the front door, I realized that there was no way I was going to fall back asleep, so I went into the kitchen to get some orange juice.
Barbara Fitzpatrick, who was dashing into an Old Navy store here to buy some orange cargo pants for her son, said the lists of supplies for her two children were considerably longer than last year's.
You should have told me to have some Orange juice standing by! That's right baby.
When I visited Havana in 1985, I looked to buy some oranges and papayas, two ubiquitous homegrown tropical staples.
All travel expenses were paid for by the writer, although he did help himself to some complimentary orange juice and cocktail sausages on the night.
When Emma stood up to get Bowie some orange juice, Bowie followed her, positioning herself between Emma's legs.
The first thing that came to mind was adding some orange zest, the better to pair with strawberries.
And – another salute to my Persian heritage – some orange zest for a fragrant, zesty kick.
For strawberries, I prefer 2 pounds of fruit with 1/2 to 2/3 cup of sugar, some orange juice, balsamic vinegar and 1/4 cup of mascarpone.
