We get a lot of free books sent to my office for review, and every now and again, instead of tossing them in the trash, we schlep a few down the street in a roller suitcase and sell them for cash, which we then toss in the air and/or spend on exorbitantly expensive and totally unnecessary beverages from the neighborhood boutique grocery store before returning to our drab and moneyless lives.
This, for instance.
*ahem* So having sold a few books today, we walked over to this five-and-dime of folly so a coworker of mine could purchase overpriced coffee. I’m hypersensitive to caffeine, for some reason—which is great in the middle of a drinking binge, but less handy in the middle of the workday—so I settled on a jar of kombucha.
Which, I know what you’re thinking here: Kombucha? You mean that ridiculous Gwenyth Paltrow-y beverage that has a lump of mucous that some people with sex and intimacy issues call a “mother” smack in the middle of it?
Yes, that’s exactly what I mean
I’ve had commercially produced kombucha before, and liked it quite a bit. It tastes kind of like the shrubs that everyone’s mixing into cocktails these days—vinegary and sweet—and it makes me just caffeinated enough to bounce around my office like a crazed balloon animal, without convincing me I’m about to have a heart attack. And usually the ones that you can buy in stores have had the gross jellyfish “mother” removed, so I can pretend it’s just slightly fizzy vinegar tea instead of a “living organism that boasts a dynamic, probiotic profile.”
Well, that wasn’t the case this time. I start drinking this cloudy, slightly pink thing, thinking, “Hey, this tastes not bad at all, and my hips are starting to maybe relax a little? Like when I drink booze? And maybe I want to dance a little?”
I dance a little.
“Perhaps I should look this up online and see what awesome benefits I am currently getting from all these dynamical protobiozomes or whatever-the-hell.”
The Mayo Clinic, at this point, basically tells me that the ratio of positive scientific results to adverse reactions to drinking kombucha is so low that I shouldn’t be drinking it at all.
“Ha. Ok. Well, it can’t be worse than some of the things I’ve put in my body in the past ten years.” *imagines credit card and crushed up pile of Adderalls.*
FIVE MINUTES LATER
“Man, I feel good right now. Like, I feel fantastic. Just ran 10 miles fantastic. HEY OFFICE GUYS, Y’ALL WANT TO RUN DOWN TO THE ICE CREAM SHOP RIGHT NOW LIKE RIGHT NOW COME ON IT’LL BE FUN! LET’S DO IT I WANT TO YELL AND MAYBE DANCE AND WATCH A MOVIE ABOUT YELLING AND DANCING!”
I decide I am going to drink kombucha every day if it makes me feel this fantastic, science be damned. The end of the beverage is drawing near; I’m closing in on the dregs, and hence, the dreaded “mother” in the bottom of the glass. After every sip, I look quickly at the bottle to make sure I won’t accidentally take a sip of the blobular thing that lies in wait for me.
*Accidentally takes sip of blobular thing that lies in wait for me*
“ACK. Ugh. UGHHHH. *retches* I just. UGHHHH that tasted like a chunk of tripe made out of dirt and wall mold!!!”
The kombucha now sits in the trash. And that’s where you shall stay, kombucha.
FWIW though, kombucha mother is the consistency of really hard jello.
You know you were wondering.
Ew.
The Living Yaylights 