Longtime readers will remember that I am a diligent brewer of kombucha, the bracing, astringent fermentation of sweetened black tea, converted into a fizzy, tart collation of organic acids by a culture of yeast and bacteria that resembles a snot flapjack.
My brewing vat sits on a stand in my kitchen between the stove and the fridge, where the tempreature is pretty constant, and has thrived there for a couple of years. Every few weeks I peel off the overgrown culture, put the excess in the composter, and add more tea. Then I cover it tenderly with a dish towel so it can breathe without a lot of dust getting in.
Yesterday I walked in to cut myself a slash and found the towel immersed in the brew. It was at a pretty acid peak, and the summer culture is strong, so I’m hoping nothing weird like a mold spore got in.
With a kitten in the house there is only one explanation. I chased Agatha around all day, trying to catch her and sniff her, but she doesn’t smell like kombucha at all. It must have been a lightning strike.