The Great Cleanse

Justin and I had arranged to go on a ride. “Let’s go on a long one,” I suggested, full of zeal for my new-found love of cycling. But when I showed up at his house, the place was mysteriously wreathed in silence. I called out several time and finally heard a weak voice reply from somewhere in the bowels of the house. Clunking in with my biking cleats, I made my way down the hall. “Come in,” Justin’s voice murmured feebly. I opened the door to find that my friend, rather than clad in one of his usual stream-lined cycling outfits, was curled up in an easy chair, wreathed in blankets and reading a book. “Oh Justin, hurry up. What are you doing?”

He let out a hollow groan of despair and huddled further down into the blankets. “Oh yes, of course!” I exclaimed, recollecting what he had told me earlier. “You’ve started then, have you? You’re really doing it?”

My friends were undertaking the master cleanse. Having thoroughly flushed their digestive systems with salt water, they were now subsisting on a concoction of lemon juice, cayenne pepper, maple syrup, and water. And they planned to complete ten days of this ascetical penance.

At first I was horrified at the mere idea of a ten day fast. Surely, I mused aloud, ten long days living on nothing but this strange concoction must be bad for the body. And what about having the energy to work? I supposed that even the life-saving elixir coffee was banned under this Nazi-like regime. But they were resolute; they were going to cleanse and that was that. And so I shook my head and wondered at the impenetrable motives that would induce anyone to submit themselves to such a clearly masochistic endeavor. I for one would simply raise a glass of Jameson and ginger to their efforts, fanatical as those might be.

My suspicions that this cleanse was in fact deleterious to the body were confirmed when I persuaded Justin out of his cocoon and onto a bicycle. We had not ridden five miles by the time he began grumbling, uncharacteristically bad tempered. Then later, around mile 18, he dropped out entirely and headed home. Just as I though, I said to myself, legs pumping vigorously. Cleanses are fundamentally a bad idea.

That was on day one of their penance, and since our habitual happy hour beers were now off limits, I saw little of Justin and Glenn until day 7, when they came over to my place for a party. By this point neither looked on the point of death as I suspected they would. Rather they both exuded a radiant aura of crystalline purity. Effortlessly forgoing the sangria and tapas, they chatted awhile, sipping on glasses of water, and then virtuously departed. I was thoroughly impressed.

The next morning as I wallowed in a fog of overindulgence, I began to contemplate the idea of a cleanse. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all. And imagine the sense of success and vitality that I might feel after having achieved such a feat. I might even lose those stubborn five pounds I am always vaguely—although somewhat noncommittally—meaning to drop. I did some research and got mildly excited. The master cleanse claimed to cure all manner of ills, improve hair and skin, revitalize body and mind. Maybe, just maybe . . . .

Well I thought, after visiting my friends one evening, (Glenn was almost finished his penance at day 9 and Molly had survived day 3) if I don’t do it now I might never have the guts to try again. So I rushed to the grocery store and bought a massive bag of lemons. Tomorrow the fast would begin.

Like a dutiful penitent I completed phase one of the cleanse, drinking a liter of salt water on the evening before beginning to fast. (This is a food blog and I have no desire to kill anyone’s appetite so will not explain the rationale behind this salt water flush.) Next morning I awoke with a feeling of grim-faced determination. The prospect did not appeal, but I was going to follow through. Usually I am an early bird, ready to leap out of bed with the sun, but today I already felt unusually irritable. What is the point of leaping out of bed if you have no steaming cup of coffee and crunchy pile of toast to leap into! For a while I lay there cursing into my covers. Then, deciding that a bike ride might raise my spirits, I mustered the courage to sally forth. Once on the road, my mood did indeed improve. Spring was in full force, the sky swirling between sunshine and showers, the heavy scent of growth rich in my nostrils. I must make elderflower cordial soon, I thought, sailing down Swede hill on a honeyed, elderflower breeze.

Towards the end of my ride the shower turned into a determined torrent and I arrived home after 24 miles tired, wet, and ravenous. Worse still I was due at work in an hour and my head was beginning to ache from caffeine deprivation. I stood in the kitchen, shivering and staring fixedly at a jar of Costa Rican coffee beans the color of burnished mahogany. Unscrewing the lid I bend down and inhaled deeply. The aroma ebbed softly into my nostrils, wrapping my mind in a warming blanket of solace. That was enough. My cleanse was over. The beans clattered into the grinder.

The only reminder of my great cleanse was a large bowl of lemons that now dominated my kitchen table. And as they invoked a sense of guilt and failure every time I passed by, I decided that they would have to be dealt with immediately. So after work that evening I came home, retrieved Julia Child from the book shelf, and spent the next hour making her classic tart au citron.

After dinner, as I sat at the table half listening to the conversation, I dug my fork into a slice of ethereal, buttercup yellow tart. And as the sharp tang of lemon bit into my palate, I could have sworn that the acid was washing away all impurities, invigorating my body and rejuvenating my mind.

Julia Child’s Lemon Soufflé Tart

A 10 inch, blind-baked, sugar-crust shell (any basic pâte sablée should work)
3/4 cup granulated sugar
4 eggs, separated
Grated rind of one large lemon
3 tablespoons lemon juice
A pinch of salt

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Beat a half cup of the sugar into the egg yolks until the mixture thickens and pales in color. Beat in the lemon rind and juice. Pour this mixture into a bowl set on top of a sauce pan of barely simmering water. Stir until the mixture has thickened and is just too hot for your finger (165 degrees F). In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites and salt until mixture forms soft peaks. Add the sugar and continue beating until mixture holds stiff peaks. Gently fold egg whites into yolk mixture and pour into the tart shell. Bake for about 30 minutes. Keep an eye on the tart and when it begins to rise and color, sprinkle remaining sugar on top. It is ready when a toothpick or knife comes out clean. Serve hot. (This recipe was taken from Julia Child’s book: Mastering the Art of French Cooking.)