When I was a kid, I was at the mall with some friends and we went to an Orange Julius. This was 1999, so going to the mall food court was still a valid form of entertainment, especially when your parents gave you twenty dollars and told you not to come home until dinner.
As I took a sip of my frosty beverage, the cold sweetness hitting just right after an afternoon of pretending to shop at Spencer’s and avoiding the kiosk people, I remarked to no one in particular: “Man, I love Orange Julius. If I knew the recipe for Orange Julius, I would make Orange Julius all the time.”
The cashier, a guy who looked about seventeen and clearly had better things to do than be at work on a Saturday, overheard this. He leaned over the counter and reeled off the recipe in one breath:
“Sugar water, crushed ice, powdered milk, orange juice.”
“Oh,” I said.
Number of Orange Juliuses made since that day: Zero.
Not one. Not even close. I have never even considered making an Orange Julius at home, despite claiming with complete sincerity that I would make them “all the time” if I only knew how.