Sincerely, Kombucha – Part 2
Weeks later, while vacationing in Portland, I’d spied bottled kombucha in cafes and we’d pass each other by, me gazing at the bubbly tea like a bashful schoolgirl with a crush.
Finally, we met.
It was an awkward first encounter.
My first sips were tinged with the essence of beer. I loathe beer.
After a quarter of the bottle, the tangy, effervescent tonic began to taste like apple cider vinegar. Mmmm. Stinky socks.
After a whole bottle, I was still undecided. I loved the light fizz it left on my tongue. I didn’t so much like the little brown floaty things in my tea.
Perhaps I ought not to have started out drinking such a big bottle. Bubbly tummy, a slightly heady sensation. And a very faint feeling of being tipsy.
The next day my tongue announced to my mouth it wanted more. No one was more surprised than me. But I didn’t give in.
The day after that, I wanted another bottle of kombucha even more than I wanted a hot, sweet Earl Grey tea. Yowza.
I found another bottle. Again I was undecided. I liked it. I didn’t like it. But I wanted it.
And so, much like my odd cravings for broccoli and beans – you know, stuff that’s good for you – I wanted more kombucha.
By now, I’ve made my way through 16 bottles of it.
I’ve mulled, I’ve dithered, and I’ve gushed about the Fairy’s Tonic. Should I brew it myself? How is the mister gonna feel about it? Stinky, weird foodie stuff is not his thing.
Last Sunday, while attending a sewing class at the lovely Spool of Thread in East Vancouver, I pulled a bottle of kombucha out of my bag.
A small voice whispered behind me, “I see you drinking that kombucha, you addict!”
Yes, I have a problem. And I did something about it.