The only complaint about last night? That I moved to Medicine Hat when I was 29, and it took me four years to find out what the under-30 crowd did for fun (besides drink). Ah, well - I only have myself to blame.
And speaking of which... if you'll recall, two weeks ago I was entranced by the concept of kombucha, the fermented tea. In particular, I liked the "sourdough" aspect of production - one batch gets transferred to the next, and so forth. Theoretically, that meant that just by lifting the scum off the bottle I purchased (which I was glad to do), I could make my own...
So, I gave it shot. Nothing too fancy to start with - no berries, no ginger, no gold flecks. Just a mug of Earl Grey, some sugar, and a starter culture about the size of nickel.
Two weeks later...
Shiny! (That's in both the morphological and Whedonverse sense of the word, mind you.)
I pulled out a slotted spoon, lifted the top skin, and it came off cleanly. What remained looked a little cloudy, and smelled a little sour, but it wasn't the "congealed milk" sort of sour... and I certainly knew there was enough sugar added at the start to make it at least somewhat palatable...
No other way but to try, I suppose. Bottoms up!
So... what did it taste like?
Alcohol. Honey. And tears.
It tasted like that impotent, gnawing regret that attacks the soul on a quiet cold day, when you're warm and well-fed and liked by your peers and have no real right to complain, but there's this vague disconnect between where you are and where you thought you'd be, and you're torn between condemning your former self as a foolish youth, or admitting that there's something wrong, it's your fault, and the fact that you don't know what it is only makes it worse.
This is a drink for those days... or also, as an appetizer for a nice heavy starchy meal like a rice pilaf, or Kraft Dinner.
Oh, or a bagel!
Yeah, I'm definitely going to have some bagels on hand when my next batch is done. Mmm!