Have you ever had cherry juice? No, not just the leftovers after a bowl of cherries for dessert, but a full glass of the brilliant red liquid that just hits the spot? Me neither, until I spent a year in Türkiye. Until then, I’d been brought up on apple and orange juice. Grapefruit juice or tomato juice were for fancy occasions.
But that year, I learned about tiny bottles of peach juice and apricot juice and yes, sour cherry juice – or vişne suyu, as I learned to call it. After school, a gang of us would go to the local corner store and the owner would pop open bottles of juice for us. We’d walk to the park or to the sea with them, or if we were feeling particularly skint, we’d drink them there, and get the small bottle return price back.
While I enjoyed the peach juice, and especially the thick apricot juice, it was the cherry juice that had me hooked. Cool, fresh, tart and sweet at the same time, it hit the spot when the weather was warm. So I was disappointed when it wasn’t readily available when I came back to Canada. Yes, you could buy it at expensive organic food stores, but the price was eyebrow raising.
It was a little more accessible when I was raising my three little ones – still in the organics section, but at least at the grocery store – so as a treat, I would occasionally buy a bottle. They’d ask for it often, but as a one-income household, it was a rare occurence.
Why am I telling you this?
It’s Easter weekend and I’m reminded of a house hunting trip the family made, when we had made the decision to leave the nation’s capital after only a year and move back to Oakville. The “why” is a long story not worth diving into, but the house hunting trip is. We stayed with good friends with two kids of their own the same age as ours and they had a great time while we looked for houses. The next day, there was a house-wide Easter egg hunt planned for these five kids, plus five more, belonging to two other close families. Imagine it. Ten kids in a suburban house, all six or younger, hopped up on chocolate! It was chaos, but the fun chaos that we’d missed so much when we were away for the year.
The adults retreated upstairs after the eggs had been found and play had resumed. We visited and enjoyed reconnecting when suddenly there was a huge noise from the basement. Somehow – and to this day, I do not understand how – my middle child, who had been playing with some exercise equipment, had managed to cut himself just under his chin. It was a great big stitches-needing curved cut. On Easter Sunday.
Off to the Emergency Room he and I went, leaving behind the other kids in the care of our friends. And we waited. And waited. Eventually, we got into a room, which may, in fact, have been to get us out of the waiting room! At this point, my son, who’s not quite four is having a complete meltdown. He hasn’t eaten, he’s missing all the fun, crash from the sugar high is wearing off and he just wants to go home. He wants nothing to do with the needle, the nurse, the doctor, or, frankly, his mother.
Enter my friend, who has arrived to see how we’re managing. Between us, we do everything we can to calm this kid down, but he’s not having any of it. Finally, she says, “I’ll get you any kind of juice you want.” Remember, it’s a statutory holiday. And what does he say? “Cherry juice.” I will hand it to my friend – she did her best. But cherry juice wasn’t on the menu anywhere.
He eventually settled down, cheeks streaked with tears and we managed to get him stitched up (he still bears a trace of that scar today, in his late 20s) and back home where he slept through hat little remained of our Easter party.
But the next week? Lots and lots of cherry juice! And me? Every time I go back, I raise a little bottle to his health.
Happy Easter to you!
