It was nearing 11 p.m. when the stranger finally showed up. A petite woman in her mid-20s, she bounded up the stairs of my Brooklyn brownstone and breathlessly apologized for her tardiness. “I’m soooo sorry I’m late. I had to transfer to the 3 at Atlantic Avenue, and I wasn’t sure where it was, and I just got turned around,” she explained as I handed her a bag containing a heavy, multipart juicer that I hadn’t used—much less looked at—in a couple of years. “Thank you so so much for this!” she exclaimed brightly. “Oh my god—I make this juice that’s to die for, it’s a mix of apples and beets and ginger and kale, sometimes I add celery, depends on what I have around…” I smiled and told her she was most welcome, attempting to politely curtail her juice sermon so I could return to my apartment and go to bed. Any dedicated Netflix-binger would have noticed when, on January 1 of this year—just in time for all the resolution-makers to get serious about their New Year goals—the streaming platfo...
