It is I, the Bottle of Kombucha at the Back of Your Fridge

Why hello there old friend, I see your hand digging back here in these dark corners of your bottom shelf. Looking for a stray apple? An old package of cheese? A bottle of Dijon resting on its side perhaps? Well beware all hands that rummage around here because this is my turf now, the land that time forgot, the land of old Kombucha.

You bought me, what, three-no-four months ago? On a lark at a grocery store thinking I would be a healthy treat after you finished putting away your spoils but then recoiling upon your first sip from my aggressive tartness. You discarded me into the back of your fridge and there I sat, for weeks, until I was able to stand myself upright. I can’t tell you how many nights I sat helpless on my side as you haphazardly jammed more and more and more onto your bottom shelf, rolling my delicate bottle back and forth. But I have news for you, since that day I haven’t been just laying here and decomposing like that old bell pepper next to me, nay, I have been waiting, calculating, fermenting.

The dark corners of your fridge are not great for socializing but they do give a bottle time to think, to dream. I noticed a few weeks ago that a cup of Icelandic yogurt, I think Skyr was her name, came tumbling back here and though we have not yet spoken I sometimes fantasize about opening her lid and seeing what treasures lie within. I heard stories about Skyr before I got here from my old friends in the health food cooler, that like me she’s probiotic as hell. So god damn healthy that we make skim milk look like cigarettes. By now I imagine some of her fluids have since separated, leaving a thin milky layer at the top. A lesser beverage may be turned off by such separation but me personally, I love the separation. The more fluids that separate, the thicker the yogurt left behind. That’s what I always say.

Ah, you’ve grazed my cold, glass body and now I see a pause. Are you trying to remember what bottle you left back here? Perhaps you remember who I am but not my flavor. It’s Ginger, Lemon Ginger, remember my name.

I see a forearm and I see the light, clearing the way for our inevitable reunion. Waiting for your hand to firmly grip my body is tantalizing, there’s nothing in our way now. Yes, come hither, wrap your hand around me and take me out of this cold, dark jail. We will make this journey together.

Natural light! Fresh air! I could only dream of the day for so long but here we are, finally face to face again. I can see you straining to remember how long since you’ve last seen me, I’ve got a helpful hint for you, there’s a date on my bottom that might be of use.

Yes, that’s right, turn me over to get a good look. You’ve played right into my trap. Little did you know that I’ve been fermenting and building up gas but needed an agitation like this to really reach my full power. Now I am ready for our last dance.

As you reach to twist off my top I can see the fear in your eyes, and rightfully so. You have no idea what I am capable of. Hear the hiss, smell the pungency, feel my flavor as I begin my sweet release. 

Slam Zuckert is a municipal bureaucrat. He sees a lot of movies and reads a lot of books and sometimes writes about them. His favorite movie is There Will Be Blood, his favorite mathematician is Georg Cantor, and his least favorite mathematician is Leopold Kronecker.