There are moments in history when a nation collectively stares into the abyss.
The Apollo 13 mission.
The Y2K bug.
That time everyone thought ketchup chips were disappearing.
And now, perhaps the greatest close call of them all: frozen juice from concentrate.
Just a few months ago, Canadians were told that frozen concentrate was heading for extinction. After decades occupying that mysterious section of the grocery store freezer between the frozen pies and the vegetables nobody buys, the humble can of orange juice concentrate appeared destined for the history books. Major producers announced they were leaving the category as consumer demand declined and shopping habits changed. Frozen concentrate, we were told, was becoming a relic of another era.
The reaction was immediate.
Thousands of Canadians who had not purchased frozen juice since the Harper government suddenly discovered they were passionate frozen juice advocates.
Social media filled with declarations of grief.
“I grew up on these.”
“My grandmother always had some in the freezer.”
“What am I supposed to use for punch now?”
Many of these people, of course, had not actually bought a can since approximately 1998. But that is beside the point. Canadians have a remarkable ability to become emotionally attached to things the moment someone threatens to take them away.
Then, in a plot twist worthy of a daytime soap opera, frozen concentrate staged a comeback. Reports emerged that canned frozen juice from concentrate would, in fact, be returning to Canadian shelves after all.
Like that retired hockey player who announces his retirement tour, retires, un-retires, signs a one-year deal, and then retires again, frozen juice was suddenly back in the game.
The entire saga feels remarkably Canadian.
We didn’t save the product because demand suddenly exploded. Nobody woke up one morning and thought, “You know what modern life is missing? A frozen cylinder of orange paste that requires adding three cans of water.”
No. We saved it because Canadians apparently cannot handle the idea of losing something familiar.
We’ve seen this before.
Take vinyl records.
For years, experts assured us that digital music would eliminate them forever. Record stores disappeared. Turntables gathered dust in basements. Then suddenly everyone under 30 decided that music sounded better if it occasionally crackled and cost $49.99 per album.
Vinyl returned from the dead.
The same thing happened with film cameras.
Technology marched forward. Digital photography conquered the world. Film was declared finished.
Today, people voluntarily pay money to take pictures they can’t see immediately and may accidentally expose to sunlight. Somehow, this is now considered cool.
Then there is the legendary case of the Newfoundland cod fishery.
While the circumstances were obviously far more serious than frozen lemonade concentrate, the fish itself has spent decades demonstrating an extraordinary ability to disappear from public consciousness and then return to headlines whenever discussions of recovery emerge.
Even the humble station wagon deserves recognition.
Once the undisputed king of family transportation, it was pronounced dead sometime around the invention of the SUV. Yet every few years, an automaker unveils a new wagon, and a small but passionate group of Canadians rejoices as though civilization itself has been restored.
History is filled with products that were supposedly finished.
The fax machine.
The flip phone.
Physical books.
Newfoundland Screech.
Every one of them has enjoyed a comeback tour at some point.
Perhaps this is because humans are terrible at predicting what will disappear permanently. We assume progress moves in a straight line. It rarely does.
Sometimes people simply miss things.
Sometimes nostalgia wins.
And sometimes a company realizes there is still money to be made selling a frozen can of fruit-flavoured concentrate to people who suddenly remembered how much they loved it.
The funniest part of the frozen juice drama may be the timing.
The reports announcing its demise arrived in the middle of winter, when most Canadians are far more concerned about snowstorms than lemonade. Then, just as summer approached and everyone started imagining barbecues, picnics and backyard gatherings, frozen concentrate received a last-minute reprieve.
It’s as though the country collectively looked around and said, “Hold on. Before we let this thing die forever, maybe we should make one more pitcher.”
So frozen juice survives.
For now.
Whether Canadians actually buy enough of it to justify its continued existence remains another question entirely.
If history is any guide, most of us will celebrate the news, feel a warm wave of nostalgia, and then proceed to walk right past it in the grocery store.
But that’s okay.
The important thing is that it’s there.
Waiting.
Frozen.
Concentrated.
Ready for Canada’s next national existential crisis.