Vile
and disgusting. Worse than Castor-Oil and NyQuil combined.
An
encounter with kombucha (aka mushroom tea, fermented tea) took place in the
early nineties. The nineteen-nineties, to be clear. In my own kitchen in
Cordova, TN.
The
first reported use of fermented tea began, it is said, over 2000 years ago when
a bug fell into a vat of sweet tea. Bug bacteria combined with local yeast and
Voila!, a symbiotic culture was created. Users maintain that the concocted,
fermented tea contains miracle properties for whatever ails a person. The tea
is reported to be an effective treatment for anything from digestive problems
to mental illness. Even as recently (!) as AD 414, a Korean doctor healed a
Japanese emperor by using kombucha. More recently, say 2016, it has been compared to other food
and drink containing probiotics.
Quite
frankly, my dear, I’d say drinking it is not only a symptom of mental illness,
it could be the cause. Should a body wish to drink something fermented,
something with medicinal properties, said body need only partake of a good
glass of red wine and munch on some deep, dark chocolate.
My
ex-husband conjured vats of the stuff in our kitchen for what felt like an
eternity, though it was more likely for a year. The container
with the scoby (the starter that looks like a jelly fish with wiggly-squiggles
hanging down) occupied an entire section of our minuscule kitchen counter
space. When it was time to make more tea, the entire kitchen was used for the process: tea brewing, sugar adding, cheese cloth covering, time-taking
additions. The brew is to rest, unrefrigerated, for two weeks. The longer it rests
or ferments, the more sour it becomes, possibly turning into vinegar.
After
being shamed into doing so, I tasted the stuff. He drank a glass of this
concoction each morning. “Yum! You’ve got to try this…it’s not bad, really. And
it’s got all kind of benefits, including prolonging youthful appearance.” Now, he’d said it! The fountain of youth and
perpetual health in a glass of strange tea, in my kitchen.
I
took. I drank. I gagged.
“I’ll
just grow old, thank you very much,” I said.
He
continued to drink it, vowing that it made him feel more invigorated, more robust, and more likely to leap tall buildings, though it might take two or
three bounds.
Almost
twenty-five years ago, when fermenting tea was part of a home-brewing rage, the
tea-master I knew did not add pureed strawberries, blueberries, lime juice,
mint leaves, white wine, or anything flavorful to improve the tea's taste. A current article
from the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette mentions that the fermented tea could be
infused with strawberries, mint, and lime, suggesting, though, that the effect
would not be immediate. It would require three days for the “super-fermenty,
tart lemonade” tea to take on any resemblance to a pleasant drink.
The
ex-husband swigged this stuff, vowing, “This tastes good…well, it doesn’t taste
that bad.” Something so disgusting, worse than a combination of Castor-oil and
NyQuil, is certain to either kill any lurking bacteria or speed up the process
to full-blown mental dysfunction.
Based
on my scientific, first-hand investigation, I believe the result to be the
latter.
I investigated my purses: the ones lined up in my closet. I use one per season that equates to a suitcase - it holds everything. "Hey, do you have an emery board? a mint? a lip gloss? a computer? a sledge-hammer?"
