If you’d like to teach a child the importance of not judging a book by its cover, you could trot out the following reliable examples:

  • Cracklin’ Oat Bran cereal (looks like kibble, tastes divine)
  • Trendy, multi-hued macarons (fancy-party-ready arranged in the box, indistinguishable packing peanuts once in the mouth)
  • Benedict Cumberbatch (pale and ferrety, yet oddly sexy)
  • Super Smoothies

The slim Chronicle Books paperback couldn’t look more appealing with its frosty, jewel-toned smoothie emblazoned on the front. The pages of the book have a slightly luxurious matte finish, while the attractive, color-coded sections suggest order, variety and fresh-produce-fuelled health. And the smoothie options stagger—the index alone is 7 pages long.

And yet.

Super Smoothies is rife with inane comments, stereotypical maladies, commonplace advice and, most disappointingly of all, un-delicious smoothies.

Really, how could that be? Aren’t smoothies just a bunch of frozen fruit in some kind of juice? Basically, yes. Which is why, as I continued to try smoothie after smoothie from the cookbook only to shrug (Constant Cravings, Vita Pack) or slightly recoil (Beta Boost), Roxy kept reminding me that the best smoothies have strawberries, blueberries, banana, juice and spinach—and couldn’t I just make that?

Super Smoothies is going in the give-away pile.

Overall cookbook rating: 1 spatula