I decided to make a
protein shake for lunch today. My method involves putting cold tap water and protein powder
into a metal cocktail shaker because it chills it a bit without needing ice. The powder has a slight
vanilla flavor but I normally add a dash of cold espresso from the fridge
to punch it up.
I've forgotten to make
the espresso several times before so I've improvised by squishing a strawberry
or a bite of banana into the concoction to add flavor. This time, I found no
espresso, no strawberries, no bananas, not even a single blueberry hiding
anywhere, but, wait, that fruit flavored kombucha I bought at the store
last week is tasty! So I added about an eighth of a cup of that.
Note to self: quarantining alone for three months kills brain cells.
I not only know that
kombucha is fermented but I also know that store-bought kombucha is made with -
or injected with - more, um, sparkle. Unfortunately, I didn't recall
that I know those things until after I'd combined my ingredients and begun
shaking the cocktail mixer. It was actually the
strange hiss emanating from the container that started some rusty wheels
turning. Sadly, the momentum of the wheels inside my head did not catch
up to the momentum of the chemical reaction inside the shaker.
The vigorous shaking of
the well-carbonated kombucha ignited an explosion that blew the cover off the
shaker, blasting a fruity and attractively pink bubbly liquid halfway across my
kitchen, even spattering the mirrored wall behind my stove.
It looked - and smelled
- like a fruit-filled fairy princess volcano had erupted in my kitchen.
Magoo and Kenosha
scrambled for cover, sidestepping the rapidly spreading, still-sizzling pink
lava while I gaped at my pink-glitter-speckled reflection in my pink-glitter-speckled mirror. Even as the other dogs
hastily retreated, Xyban came charging in from outside to see what kind of
monster had attacked us. He slipped in the liquid cotton candy, spinning out of
control before crashing into the refrigerator. The look of panic he'd
displayed while ricocheting across the kitchen was replaced by one of disgust
as soon as his abrupt deceleration allowed him to survey his surroundings.
After shooting me a reproachful glare, he marched back through the mess to resume his guard duties on the deck, punctuating his exit with snorts and loosely formed pink paw prints.
Now my kitchen and
dining room look like a Grimm crime scene, like the aftermath of the Big Bad
Wolf having an unfortunate reaction to gobbling up Cinderella's Fairy Godmother
and leaving a violently purged carnage of simmering, pink pixie puke in his
wake.
Sorry, no pics until
next of kin is notified.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com
No comments:
Post a Comment