WE'RE GOING TO A CABANA? No, kombucha. AT THE ZOO? No, you're thinking "capybara." Kombucha. It's a drink. OH. GOTTCHA.

"Mom...we're going for kombucha tonight," Sydney yelled. I regretfully glanced away from an episode of Breaking Bad as I was currently power-watching the series. "Great!" I yelled back, pausing to Google the term "biznatch," (This show was doing wonders for my vocabulary), "but you'll have to remind me of the steps."

Frowning, Sydney popped into the room. "What steps?" "The steps to kabootie," I told her, "I can barely remember the moves to the Macarana, let alone kabootie." "First of all," Sydney began, sighing, "I said kombucha, not kabootie. And, as far as I know, there is no dance called kabootie. Kombucha is a fermented tea with probiotic properties." 

Wow. I was experiencing a LOT of conflicting feelings.

Relief that I wouldn't be dancing the kabootie (which I think entails a complicated choreographed maneuver using three silk scarves, a sword, and an impaled ripe watermelon), an involuntary muscle spasm that accompanied the word "fermented," and self-conscious embarrassment that I would be sharing a probiotic with the public in general. I prefer to keep my probiotic preferences private...on a don't ask/don't tell level. 

I momentarily veered off my Breaking Bad vocabulary lesson (where I just learned that it's not necessarily a good thing to take a trip to Belize) to research this purported health drink. Remember, I'm from Wyoming County...where milk is the reigning monarch of making the body good.  My initial research disclosing that kombucha is made from a mushroom turned out to be inaccurate. It is made from a colony of bacteria and yeast. It's science, people. The Frankenstein's monster of health drinks.  Or, the Amish friendship bread of beverages, banking almost two billion dollars on the global market. 

Brad's phone call interrupted my investigation. "Where are you going tonight?" he asked again, not hearing my initial whispered response. "They're taking me to Cabelas," I hissed, trying to quietly communicate my concern. "But you hate camping," Brad said, confused. "I hate dancing too," I told him, "but here we are." 

"It's unpasteurized." I later explained to Sydney, who was trying to understand why I was so nervous. "So is your apple cider back home," she calmly responded. "Do we want to have a discussion about honey?" Savannah helpfully inserted.  How could my daughters be so blase?  When they lived with me, they refused to sniff the milk container a moment past the due date! "What if I have a histamine reaction? How do I make sure the kitncaboodle wasn't brewed in a ceramic container? I could suffer lead poisoning or anthrax!" 

In light of my hysteria (also known as the product of due-diligence in researching...forgive me for being well-informed!), my daughters tried another tactic. "Let's just go for ice cream instead." "No," I protested, "I love trying new things!" After this, I was going to sample "Franch" dressing...Breaking Bad-style!