Day 9: Hamlet Whips Up a Smoothie

To blend, or not to blend, that is the question-
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to chop
The bananas and avocados of outrageous nutrition
Or to take arms against a sea of cashews,
And by opposing crush them? To pulse, to self-clean
No more; and by a sleep, to say we shred
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural whips
That flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consomee
devoutely to be creamed. To die, to liquefy,
To beat, perchance to dream; Aye, there's the kale,
For in that high or low speed what drinks may come,
When we have shut off this mortal switch,
Must give up pause. There's the soymilk
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the grates and grinds of time
The cherry's pit, the melon's rind,
The pangs of the pineapple's skin, the lime's puree,
The insolence of garlic, and the spurns
That patient merit of the spirulina takes,
When he himself might his quiets make
With a dull kitchen knife? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary blender,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered mangosteen, from whose membrane
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make smoothies of us all,
And thus the native hue of carrots
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of parsnips,
And entreprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their currants too dry,
And lose the name of fruit. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in all thy orisons
be thou all my shakes remembered.