More Quarantine "Cooking"

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.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Jill Wragg