An Ode to Kombucha

 These thoughts expressed here aren’t from blind taste tests or stolen words from some dude’s blog in Minnesota. These are raw. Never seen before. Just like the crap that floats on top of my glass of Kombucha. Why did I agree to go on a juice cleanse, anyway? What human, who is not the son of Christ, would choose to limit their daily intake of solid foods in the name of health. It’s not a question. It’s not even rhetorical at this point. Seriously, what convinced me to torture myself into healthier bowel movements except that I was convinced that I could do…better?

But what I should say is THANK YOU, citizens of the United States, for buying into the Kombucha frenzy and selling floatable yeast in a drink that resembles flat Fanta. It’s all about probiotics these days. Listen to Jamie Lee Curtis, yo. She knows. She’s half man/half woman so she would be a viable spokesperson for yogurt. Naturally. Here in Central Oregon, I’ve seen refill depots for Kombucha popping up in stranger places than every grocery and coffee shop in town. The car wash? Yes.

And here is where my true fear of Kombucha consumption arises. Let’s say I get a refill and buy my carwash and drive in, place my front left tire in the appropriate slot and jam the car into neutral. And then it’s me and my live cultures getting locked inside the wash box and something goes wrong and I throw the stuff all over my new lululemon yoga pants and there’s no way of getting the protein blob out of my $78 stretchy pants. Then, in the midst of this travesty I realize I can’t at all afford lululemon or Kombucha on the salary of an English major. Damn you, Keats! I fell in love with your educated language my freshman year of college and here you are, still in my head, haunting the pages of my 2013, barely educated prose (if you’ll allow me to call it that).

What am I? I am a sensitive human looking for love and suffering through digestive issues and stagnant small intestinal processes. Still alive, long after your short life span where you at least took long hikes in the Lake District fantasizing about Fanny Brawne. When I really think about it, I bet you would not have touched this stuff.