I knew right what it was the moment the sound of glass exploding in the kitchen rang out like a gunshot.
Back when we lived in Saudi Arabia in the 1970s all alcoholic beverages were illegal, as they still are today. But like any prohibition, this ban encouraged all sorts of bootlegging. Despite being punishable by deportation or public flogging, many folks made wine, brewed beer, and distilled moonshine from sugar water, which was called sadiki, or "my friend".
My mother was among the brewers and vintners, mixing batches of malt syrup, hop pellets, and yeast, or grape juice, fruit, and yeast in large trash cans in the shower of an unused bathroom off the kitchen of our villa. Then she would bottle her concoctions, reusing the ceramic capped liter bottles that the grape juice came in and set them on their sides in racks to finish fermenting.
Sometimes the beer would get a little too fizzy, and unless the bottles were burped, they might explode. Then there would be a mess of beer and glass to clean up, but since they were in a shower already, the job was relatively easy. Even so, such mishaps could have been dangerous, and my mom took care to avoid them.
As for the product itself, I wasn't a drinker back then, and I don't really remember how it was. My dad was always very complimentary, but of course it was his only option, and so there was that. It seemed like guests at the parties my parents had enjoyed their drinks, too. My mother never sold her beer and wine, nor did my parents make it a practice to offer it to any of their Arab acquaintances, and so they stayed out of trouble.
This month I'm kicking off my year of holidays from twelve things I might enjoy a little too regularly by joining the loads of people practicing dry January. It has been an adjustment not to reach for a beer or a glass of wine at the end of each day, and the non-alcoholic versions of those drinks I've tried have been disappointing.
When Heidi was going vegan we learned early on that it's often best not to substitute the things you can't have, but rather to enjoy those you can. In that spirit, I've been looking for alternative beverages to drink while I'm cooking or with dinner. So far, my favorite is switchel, that traditional refresher that New England farmers drank while working in the field. My version is a mixture of apple cider vinegar, ginger, maple syrup, and lime, and it is smashing when added to sparkling water.
I also decided to order some cultures and brew my own Kombucha and water kefir. I've never been a big fan of the "buch", but I figured if I make my own I can fix it the way I like it. As for water kefir, I'd actually never heard of this probiotic drink, but it seemed easy enough to ferment in a mason jar with just a little sugar and water. Where kombucha takes a month, water kefir is ready in a few days; you just strain out the culture and add juice or other flavorings to the liquid. Then you bottle that in a swing-top and let it develop a little fizz.
My first batch was sumo mandarine and vanilla, and when I checked it after a day on the counter, there was a little gas in the bottle, but the kefir itself wasn't effervescent at all. I resolved not to burp it for a day or two, to encourage the CO2 to carbonate the liquid.
And that's what exploded in the kitchen this morning. It's been nearly 50 years, but it's not a sound you ever forget.
When we ran in to survey the damage, it became clear how lucky we were that neither of us or any of our pets had been in there when the bottle blew. There was glass as far away as the living room, and chards all over the kitchen counters, stove, and floor. The bottle had been standing right where I usually set my cutting board, and I had been cooking there not even an hour before. If it had burst then? I could have been blinded or worse.
And so I cleaned the mess up not in anger or frustration, but gratitude. We were all fine, and there's even another batch of water kefir in another bottle on the counter, where it will be burped at least twice a day, and then consumed or refrigerated promptly.
