Sincerely, Kombucha – Part 1
A while back, before my beloved cast iron frying pan bit the rust, I wrote a couple of posts called The Frying Pan Diaries. Someday, when I am brave enough to march into battle with sandpaper in hand, I’ll write a little bit more about my frying pan adventures. For now, I thought this style of writing would be a rather funny way of telling about my tales brewing kombucha.
Not so long ago, I’d noticed a friend exclaim on Twitter, “Does anyone in Vancouver want a kombucha mother? Mine just had a baby!”
Like many things trendy, “kombucha” was a term that drifted across my radar occasionally that I paid little attention to. Even my mum had sent me a link about it after she and a coworker had chatted about it. I clicked, I saw, and I said no.
But it took my friend’s head-turning tweet to tweak my attention.
I thought, “Huh? What the heck had a baby?”
Several blogs and photos later, I decided that just the look of a kombucha scoby was enough to give me the heebee-jeebees. A rubbery beige pancake with floaties? Tasty? Healthy? Nuh-uh. That stuff’s so not for me.
This was not at all sounding like anything tasty.
By then, though, it was too late. I’d read too much. The word was already steeping in my mind. My curiosity had gotten a nip of something new and wanted a little bit more.