One of the tastiest things I’ve ever put in my mouth is orange juice. I was in Morocco, wandering around the outskirts of Marrakech with my now-partner, without a plan. I remember it was so hot and dry my lips were starting to peel like lizard skin. We came across an orange juice stall with oranges stacked so high it looked like the stall owner had built a fruit fortress. The juice he gave us tasted otherworldly, it’s how I imagine an elixir of youth would taste.
On the plane trip home, my orange juice was served in a plastic cup. It was the colour of mustard, it smelled like a used towel and it tasted like it was made by a scientist who’s never tasted oranges, only read about them. I drank every drop then asked the flight attendant for another. For me, orange juice is like takeaway butter chicken, Jackie Chan stunts and cat facial expressions – I’ve never met a version I don’t like.
