We had a major crisis the other night. My father was rummaging around the refrigerator and accidentally knocked over a bottle of XanGo, a $25 bottle of designer fruit juice that had shattered and spilled all over the floor.
“My xanadu!” my dad cried, falling to his knees like a drug addict who just flushed his stash down the toilet. XanGo is basically a mix of mangosteen juice and other fruit juices. It’s supposed to be this all-purpose miracle drink that can do everything from prevent chronic fatigue to lubricate achy joints with antioxidant this and detoxifying that. (As far as I know, it has not yet been added to the list of banned substance on the Tour de France).
A friend of mine “gave” us a bottle of it as a gift only to get us adequately hooked on the stuff so she could then turn around and sell us a case of it without us screaming: “It’s how much? Are you insane?”
“I so totally notice if I stop drinking it,” she said. “I break out and have less energy.”
God only knows if this magic juice really does increase your sex drive and improve your golf game, the way it’s supposed to. Maybe it’s a placebo, or maybe it’s a cure-all. You can just toss it into the pile with all the bars and the gels and the powder and the supplements. Are these miracle foods a matter of slick packaging, or is that energy bar going to make or break your ride/run/hike of the day?
I’m a total sucker for health food stores. I get into a mood as soon as I walk into them. It’s sort of like going into a quiet bookstore and deciding these books with their new smell and crisp pages are going to somehow change your life.
My favorite health food stores are the ones that have hardwood floors, juice bars, big bulk foods sections and an entire aisle devoted to vitamins. I can spend hours slowly picking my way through each aisle, carefully reading labels and examining packages and having all these fantasies about giving up sugar and alcohol for good and starting some new regimen that’s going to turn me into the stick figure/athlete/all-natural goddess I’ve always dreamed of being.
The thing is, every so often I find something that actually works.
A few years ago, I did a juice fast. I got the program from the book “Prescription for Nutritional Healing” when I was feeling run-down after taking antibiotics for a viral infection and some lady named Sunshine Buttercup something-or-other suggested it to me after we were done with our rolfing session.
The fast required that I take so many herbs, juices and teas, I spent my entire day preparing them and totally forgot I wasn’t eating. But the effects were profound: The first two days, I felt like my head might explode right there on the spot from caffeine withdrawal, so I had to walk around holding my temples just to keep everything together. But by day 3, I was euphoric. My senses were heightened beyond anything I had ever experienced. By day 4, my skin was even-toned and totally clear, and the bags under my eyes had totally disappeared. I felt light and energetic and beautiful.
Of course, the high didn’t last, but it did teach me about how much what you eat affects your health and well-being. At the very least, I had a more profound appreciation for nutrition and became more selective about trying to eliminate toxins from my diet the best I could.
Around the same time I discovered a meal supplement called the Ultimate Meal that sort of tastes like dirt and grass. One of my friends in the fitness industry had recommended it to me when I was rattling off my usual complaints about being pudgy despite my best efforts to exercise and eat well.
“It’s distension,” she told me. “Swelling in your intestines from all the toxins we eat.”
So I tried the stuff and the strangest thing happened: In addition to having the sustained energy and satisfied appetite it promised, I had like 15 plantar warts on the bottom of my feet that I’d been ignoring for several months that suddenly, miraculously disappeared. Is it possible that the Ultimate Meal was also the ultimate cure?
I’m not sure about XanGo juice, but if it’s true that you are what you eat, I’d rather be a mangosteen berry than say … a cow.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
