We live in troubling times, when a starlet’s thin prevarication can ruin the good thing the rest of us health-conscious freaks had going.
Now, more than ever, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
…or else buy Buffalo Mountain Kombucha.
I stopped at the Roanoke Natural Foods Co-op to take a breather on my ride from Arlington to Asheville. The sun had long gone down on the Shenandoah Valley, and I still had four hours left. I bought this innocuous-looking thinking the biggest thrill would be adding a new regional variety to my ongoing catalogue of kombucha manufacturers.
What I got instead was a bracing, nostril-clearing rush of ginger–the kind that comes with your sushi, not the kind in grandma’s cookie jar–chased by a tangle of cloudy culture slime at the bottom.
The last time I had kombucha that blew my hair back like this was when my friends Erin and Ryan forgot about theirs for an entire summer. Drinking a beverage that has been percolating for three months in an unventilated garage the inland valley of southern California, I saw stars as they must have looked in Woodstock in the summer of ’69.
This one didn’t send me over the edge of space-time, fortunately. You don’t want to navigate Interstate 26 with your head in the fourth dimension. But it did take care of the headache I’d been nursing all day, and calmed my stomach from the stress of taking two-lane switchbacks in the dark.
In a world of watered-down, overpriced, faux-fermented tonic waters, this one is definitely worth the splurge. If you can’t make your own, get this one.