Kombucha Time

ingredients for ginger kombucha

I said in my previous post that kombucha was a subject for another day.  Well, it's another day.  The fact that I even tasted kombucha was a bit of a fluke.  I was at my annual writing retreat and as one of the last ones to leave, I had the task of cleaning out the fridge.  There wasn't really much left so it wasn't a chore.  There was, however, a bottle of kombucha. The owner of the bottle pronounced it foul and said that anyone who wanted the remaining bottle could have it.  I was intrigued so I put it in the cooler and set off for home. I'm not sure how much I knew at that point, maybe that it was a fermented tea beverage and by the time it was ready to drink there was very little alcohol left in it. I stopped for lunch at a Subway and decided that instead of buying a diet pop, I would try the kombucha.

I ate the sandwich and then I took out the bottle and looked at it for a good few minutes. What if this weird concoction didn't agree with me and I ended up sick on the drive home?  I went over what little I had read, that it was supposed to be good for your gut micro-biome, that it had no more alcohol that .5% beer which I drink. If it was bottled commercially there probably wasn't anything too terrible in it. Well, bottoms up! I opened the bottle and gave it a sniff.  It didn't smell bad so I took a sip and immediately liked it. It was kind of tart and it was wonderfully fizzy. As I drove the other 5 hours to get home I found myself wishing that I had another bottle of it in the car.

When I got home I began to do more research online.  I didn't feel quite up to making my own so I looked around to see if there was anywhere in Calgary I could get it.  Turned out that  a market not that far away from my house was beginning to sell True Buch kombucha on tap. The first time you go, you buy a bottle and then bring it back for refills. I started with a  2 litre jug or growler.  It wasn't long before I bought a second growler.  Then I bought a litre bottle so that I'd still have some kombucha when I'd emptied the 2 growlers. I limited myself to one glass of kombucha a day. I would like to have drunk more but I could really have burned through the money if I didn't put some kind of a limit on my intake.

About every 2 weeks I'd return to get the growlers filled. There were all sorts of different flavours offered but my favourite was ginger.  Seems like it was everyone else's favourite too since they usually had ginger plus one other flavour. In time they added another spigot and had three flavours on tap. I continued my fortnightly pilgrimage for kombucha until a friend decided to try to make her own. She obtained a scoby (symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeast) from someone and started a batch. She reported that it tasted good and that making it was really easy. Encouraged by her success and realizing that my habit was becoming rather expensive, I decided to try making it myself.

First I needed a scoby. Some websites said you could use part of a bottle of commercial  kombucha to start your own brew but others discouraged that. I looked online and  found Karma Cultures.  They not only had scobies, they also had kombucha starter kits with everything you would need to get going.  I ordered a starter kit.

It was a frigid day in January when the scoby arrived in the mail and I wasn't home until late afternoon. The scoby, whose name is Violet, (I'm being absolutely serious here: she came with that name) had ice crystals in the bag and the liquid was more the consistency of gelatine than of tea. I worried that I had killed her before I even tried my first batch.  Turns out, Violent is one tough little organism.  Even though I did a whole bunch of things wrong she survived and produced a batch of kombucha with the proper PH balance in about a week.  Since ginger is my favourite I grated up a bunch of ginger root and boiled it.  Then I strained it and added sugar to the remaining liquid in order to do a secondary fermentation. One thing you must attend to when making kombucha is to make sure to "burp" the kombucha once it's in the bottles.

Violet at work

During the initial fermentation Violet does her thing in a large jar full of sweet tea.  The jar doesn't have a lid but is covered with a tightly woven cloth with an elastic that holds it onto the neck of the jar. Violet needs caffeine, sugar, and air in order to work her magic.  Although Violet is back in her jar working on another batch by the time the first one gets bottled, there are still small bits of scoby in the bottles and they work to produce carbon dioxide. If you forget to burp the bottles the pressure can build up enough that you end up cleaning kombucha off the ceiling. I've never had to do that, knock wood, but the dear friend who first started me down the kombucha route has had 2 explosions, both quite spectacular.  When the level of fizz reaches a point I'm happy with I put the bottles in the fridge and that slows down the carbon dioxide production.

At first I tasted the kombucha every day after about day 2 and then checked the PH.  Now I know it takes about a week so I usually leave Violet alone for about that long. If I'm running low it can be less than a week.  If we haven't been drinking much kombucha it can be more. I made my 34th batch of kombucha tonight. That's about 134 litres so far.

Violet is still going strong.  She is what's called the mother scoby because after a few batches she grows to a size where she can be split in two and the baby scoby can be used to start its own batch of kombucha. I divided Violet once but that made way more kombucha than we needed so I gave the baby away to a friend who now makes her own kombucha.

I could certainly divide Violet again but I just keep putting her back into the jar. I think she might work faster as she gets bigger and I may have to take part of her out and throw it into the compost if she gets too big for the jar or if she works so fast I can't keep up with her but so far so good.

So how do you make kombucha? There are many good sites with specifics but this will satisfy basic curiosity if you are still with me.

flavoured with nanking cherry juice

Make tea, either green or black.  Let it steep and remove the tea bags.  Stir in sugar until it dissolves. Add cold water so the tea won't be too hot for the scoby. Add the scoby and the starter liquid.  Cover the jar and wait. It's like making sour dough in that you reserve a portion of the kombucha to start another batch before you bottle the rest.

Sometimes I look at Violet and think oh no, I really should bottle the kombucha but not tonight.  Then the next night I have to do it or it will turn into vinegar. Even though it's a bit of a chore sometimes the effort is well worth it. I drink water and I drink regular tea but kombucha is something special and I look forward to my daily glass. When I go to a party I take kombucha with me. I'm delighted kombucha has become part of my routine and if it's good for me, so much the better.  Another thing that makes me smile is imagining what my tea-totalling father would think of his daughter fermenting tea on her kitchen counter.  Cheers, Dad.

Picking cherries at twilight

The main cherry bush

It's been a hot day today and things didn't go exactly as planned. I was tired, hot and grumpy when I decided to go and sit on the front step.  The temperature inside and outside were about equal and outside there might be a breeze.

I stepped out the door and the red Nanking cherries beside the step caught my eye. They aren't the large plump varieties that come from BC or Washington. They have a huge pit compared to the size of the fruit but I like their tart taste, and they grow in my front yard!  I got a bowl from the kitchen and proceeded to listen to the magpies natter before going to roost as I picked cherries.

They grow in clusters

We have two bushes in the front.  We assume the main one in the middle of the lawn was planted by a previous owner.  The one by the door is a volunteer, thanks no doubt, to the magpies and other feathered friends. Most of the cherries were ripe and slid easily from the branches into my hands. I dropped a fair number on the ground as I picked by the handful.  In about 20 minutes I had 3/4 of a bowl and there were lots left for the birds. I don't know whether the hares that hang out in the yard like cherries but there are plenty on the ground for them too.

This was before they boiled over

When you pick fruit you have to eat at least some of it. Because they are quite acidic, I ate as many as  I dared and then searched the internet for what to do with Nanking cherries. They are pretty soft and they don't keep well. Liqueur seems a popular choice as do jelly and syrup.  None of these products are high on my list. I have, however, been making kombucha since last February and I use a variety of juices for the secondary fermentation.  I can't exactly buy Ocean Spray cherry juice so why not make juice out of them and use it in the next batch of kombucha? (Kombucha, that's another post.)

I put the cherries in a large bowl and covered them with water so that the leaves and other bits would float to the top where I could skim them off.  After I washed them I put the cherries in a pot with about a cup of water.  One source said to mash them with a potato masher but she also said that it worked better when she got in there with her hands and squished the cherries. Right.  I'm not particularly bothered by the textures of the foods I eat but I hate getting my hands in slime.  I never liked finger painting as a kid and I can't imagine taking up pottery. At least squishing the cherries would be room temperature rather than slimy and cold.  In I went, only one hand though, and dutifully squished and squashed until I thought I had most of the cherries broken.  Next I boiled them and, of course, the minute I turned my back they boiled over leaving a sticky mess on the stove.

I guess if you want your juice or syrup or jelly to be picture perfect you strain it laboriously through a sieve lined with cheese cloth. Phooey on that noise.  I've got nothing against pulp so once the cherries had boiled for a while I poured them into a colander, took the potato masher to them and then finished the mashing process by pushing the pulp against the bottom and sides with a wooden spoon.  That left me with a little bit of pulp and the pits which I consigned to our new composting bag that will be picked up by the city for the first time on Monday.

I decided to take a stick blender to the resulting pulp and juice. We have a very fancy new blender contraption but I thought that if I had messed up and there was a pit somewhere in there I'd rather wreck an less expensive appliance. All went well in that part of the operation. The juice is now cooling on the counter and I'll put it in the fridge so it will be ready for the kombucha next Tuesday. I confess I did put some sugar in it.

In filling the bottle with juice I spilled some on the counter.  Rather than waste it I did a taste test and slurped at the puddle with a straw.  It tasted pretty good. I cleaned up most of the mess in the kitchen, including some cherry juice that managed to make its way onto the backsplash behind the sink.  All in all, it was an entertaining way to spend a couple of hours on a hot summer night and I'm looking forward to the next batch of kombucha so I can enjoy the results of the evening's work.  I'll let you know how it tastes.

I have singing

I first sang in a choir when I was 8 years old.  You had to be 8 in order to sing in the junior choir at church. I don't remember making a decision to sing in the choir. I just took it for granted.  

The choir leader's name was Mrs. Hurlburt.  She seemed to me to be at least 100 years old.  She had longish grey hair and when she sang she made a sound a little like a fog horn, but none of that mattered. I was excited to be singing in a choir. Through elementary school I continued to sing with the long-suffering Mrs. Hurlburt. We were kids: we got into mischief

In junior high I took vocal music in a school that had highly regarded music programs, both instrumental and vocal. Marilyn Perkins, the ‘real’ music vocal teacher didn’t teach the grade 7’s but we all knew who she was and without breaking stride, she responded with a curt nod and a hello, when we spoke to her in the halls.

In grade 8 I switched churches so I could sing in Miss Perkins’ church choir as well as in her school choir. My father, who was on the board of the church I had attended since I was born, was none too pleased but he didn’t stop me. As a result of the church switch I got to sing in the senior choir Thursday nights and Sunday mornings. That meant I was singing 5 days a week. The way the timetable worked at school we didn’t get music every day. Days without music class dragged.

Of course there were kids in the class who were way better than I was. A lot of them played the piano, which never really interested me, and some of them were adding singing lessons to their activities outside school. By grade 9 these kids were trying out for and getting into The Young Canadians, the group of singing dancing youth who took part in the Calgary Stampede grand stand shows. The idea of auditioning for anything scared the liver out of me and I knew I couldn’t dance so Young Canadians were out. The idea of singing lessons did appeal to me and I wanted Miss Perkins’ approval and attention. Many students were in awe of her.

My dad taught high school math and my mum stayed home with me. They didn’t have a lot of money and I thought singing lessons might be a hard sell so I got resourceful. I lied to my parents saying that Miss Perkins suggested I take singing lessons. Miss Perkins didn’t do anything of the kind but the lie worked and I studied voice for a number of years.

I got involved with musicals in high school and then in the community. I was with people who were interesting and who accepted me. I was hooked. My bewildered dad borrowed money against his insurance policy to send me to The Banff School of Fine Arts where I eased into stagecraft. After I graduated from university with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Drama, I went to work in the theatre department at Banff School of Fine Arts and spent 3 years there. 

The first year I didn’t sing in any choirs and by the second year I missed it. I was used to Miss Perkins and the way she did things. I borrowed money from my great aunt to buy a car so I could come to Calgary Thursday after work, attend choir practice, and drive back for work on Friday morning. After work on Friday I drove to Calgary, stayed with my parents on Saturday, sang in church Sunday morning and drove back to Banff Sunday afternoon for work Monday morning.

When I left Banff to return to university I continued to sing in the church choir. I met my husband through the church choir and for many years we have sung together there. I have friends in the choir whom I have known since we were teens. We sang together as young adults, when some married and started families, as their children moved out and established homes of their own, and now as they entertain us with stories of their grandchildren’s exploits. Many of us came to Scarboro because of Marilyn Perkins and, although she died almost 15 years ago, her voice creeps into our heads with instructions when we sing a piece we often rehearsed with her.

When I retired from teaching I went back to taking voice lessons, this time with Elaine Case, the daughter of my original voice teacher. I enjoy the lessons and I realize that my true enjoyment comes from singing with others. 

At the end of June this year our church choir joined with another and we travelled to Ottawa to be part of a 600 voice Unisong choir that celebrated Canada Day at the Shaw Centre and at the National Arts Centre. There were choirs from Yukon, Nunavut, Labrador, Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Manitoba, Alberta, British Columbia, and one choir from North Carolina in the USA. Singing in a group that size is incredible. On the one hand there are so many singers that if I make a mistake no one is likely to notice. On the other hand if not enough people get it right you end up with musical mush.

“Music of the Land” by Kathleen Allen presented a particular challenge. It required us to sing in English, French and Inuktitut and features throat singers and Inuit drummers and dancers from Labrador and Nunavut. I didn’t get all the French or the Inuktitut right but the thrill of being part of that piece made every hair on my arms stand up. Many of us choked up at points as we sang and then regained control and sang even more fervently. It’s impossible to describe the emotional high of being a Canadian singer, and making music with others from all across the country. Unisong has posted this performance on YouTube so have a listen if you care to.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcHLC7v5g_U&feature=share

Singing has given me so many gifts. It has given me companionship, laughter and it has taken me to  Saskatoon,  Vernon, New York City, Ottawa and Powell River. It fills my head with song. I seldom listen to music because If I’m awake, not concentrating too hard or listening to an audio book, I’m singing in my head. Sometimes I sing bits of songs over and over and sometimes I sing through whole pieces. Often I hum or whistle. The music is there whether I’m happy or sad and I have gotten myself through tough cycling days and hikes by singing inside my head. Singing has comforted me when I have been afraid and when someone I have loved has died. I simply can’t imagine what my life would be like if I did not sing.

I’ve cycled through a number of other pursuits, each of which was foremost in my life for a time. When I was training for long distance runs I used to get irritated by people who asked me if I was a runner or a jogger. My response was,  “A runner is someone who runs no matter how fast or how slowly. I’m a runner.” Similarly, a singer is one who sings regardless of how loudly or softly, beautifully or scratchily. By that definition I owe a debt to Mrs. Hurlburt and her foghorn voice. She may not have sung beautifully but she sang enthusiastically and she made it possible for me to sing in my first choir.

A couple of concerts ago One Accord, another choir to which I belong, sang “I Have Had Singing.” This is the story of the piece taken from a program by Steven Sametz. http://stevensametz.com/composer/works/info/i-have-had-singing/

Program Notes

I Have Had Singing paraphrases lines taken from Ronald Blythe’s Akenfield, Portrait of an English Village.  In the 1960’s, Blythe traveled to the north of England interviewing farmers, plowmen, blacksmiths — people whose stories dated back to the early 20th century.  One subject, given the name Fred Mitchell in the book, was an 80-year old horseman who told his story of working a bleak, unfertile land in a life filled with little joy. In the midst of his story, he stopped and said, “But there was always singing; the boys in the field, the chapels were full of singing. I have had pleasure enough; I have had singing.”
I Have Had Singing was written for the Berkshire Choral Festival, a summer amateur music festival. I Have Had Singing speaks to amateur and professional musicians alike about the simple love of singing and the lasting joy it can bring.

Text

The singing.
There was so much singing then
And this was my pleasure, too.
We all sang, the boys in the field,
The chapels were full of singing.
Here I lie:
I have had pleasure enough;
I have had singing.



I can’t say that I have had pleasure enough because I hope there are many more years of singing pleasure ahead but I can wholeheartedly say along with Fred Mitchell, I have had singing and my life has been richer for it. It’s not expensive and it doesn’t take a lot of equipment. Although I don’t, I can sing anywhere. While there are things I love more there is nothing I have loved longer. Whatever else happens in my life from this point on I, too, can say I have had singing.


Have a listen to ‘I Have Had Singing.’



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=71WS7sS2nDw