My Pets

Toby, my pet SCOBY

This is Toby.  He's alive.  I know that Toby looks like a placenta but he's actually a SCOBY - a Symbiotic Culture Of Bacteria and Yeast - and he's alive.   I think of him as my pet.  

Although Toby likes to eat, he's as picky as a toddler.  All he wants is one thing: sweet tea.  Toby floats in about a gallon of sweet tea which I refresh every seven to ten days.  If Toby were a cat, you'd change his litter that often, wouldn't you? So my pet doesn't take any more maintenance than your cat or dog.  And, I don't have to walk him.  Totally a plus.

What Toby does, and does well, far better than your pets - even if you have gerbils or mice, is procreate.  He breeds faster than a rabbit! Every week when I change his tea, I take Old Toby, who is now lying below Baby Toby and remove him, allowing Toby Junior (the clone) to bask in the sweetness of the new batch of tea all alone.  Papa Toby goes into my SCOBY hotel, a resting place for Toby, Toby Senior, Grandpa Toby, Great Gramps and so on.  

The SCOBY Hotel

I could just pitch Old Toby onto my compost pile or eat him like gummy candy but I prefer to "put him out to pasture" in the friendly gallon jar with his family.  That way, if something happens to my current Toby, I have one in reserve.  Or two.  Or ten...  

Another, happier, alternative for me is that I can give Old Toby to YOU.  YOU take Old Toby, put him in a jar full of sweet tea with a cup or two of his fermented tea and then you have your own cute pet.  

What's that?  You don't think Old Toby is cute?  Didn't your mother ever teach you that if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything?  Maybe I don't think your pet is that cute either, but you don't hear me announcing it to the world.

You could buy yourself your own Toby online.  Tobys there cost $50.  Makes my gift idea seem more generous, right?

Toby can sit on the counter, all but ignored, for several weeks, just happily floating in his sugared tea water and growing more SCOBYS but the longer he sits without fresh food, the more sour his pool water becomes.  Ultimately, Toby will be swimming in vinegar - lovely if you want to use it for salad dressing, but pretty tough to drink.  

Drink?

Yes, that's right.  The byproduct of Toby's sweet tooth is KOMBUCHA, a fermented tea that's chock full of probiotics, 38 - 43 strains of those little buggers, all just waiting to improve my gut health when I swig down a drink. And swig I do.  

When I put Baby Toby into his new tea (again, with a cup or two of old tea, just to keep it acidic), I bottle his used-up pool water which is now Kombucha, add flavoring and let the tea sit on my counter for a day or so.  Then I put the bottles into my fridge.   

Because I like the taste of Kombucha, which is like a sparkling apple cider with a champagne-like fizz, I also change the SCOBY hotel once a week and bottle that tea, too.  My fridge is filled with fermented-tea-in-beer-bottles at all times and usually more is just a day away.  I am happy to let guests who wander down taste test the current flavors.  Usually there's one that's a standout and we chug down that bottle immediately.  The rest will improve as they age.

Kombucha sells everywhere these days.  Somebody told me you can even buy it at WalMart.  I have never seen it sold for less than $2.50 on sale and some brands sell for nearly $4.00 each.  Mine costs me $.50 a gallon.

Now that you know that, I don't seem to be one cat shy of crazy anymore, do I?

* * *

This is Karen.  She's alive.  Karen is a Water Kefir Grain.....

www.StillSwimmingUpstream.com

Vanity, thy name is Chris

I'm checking out my Facebook news feed and I see this picture:

Underneath the picture in the comments section, I read:

            Erik Bard: Did ChrisZimmerman get a dog?

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Intellectually I know that Erik knows that this is NOT a picture of ChrisZimmerman.  I know this because he is a friend of my daughter's and this is a picture of her.  Clearly he has NOT mistaken me for this stunning young woman.  Intellectually, I know this.

Emotionally, however, it's a different story. In my mind, I still look sixteen.  Every time I get a glimpse of myself in a mirror, it shocks me to see the me that others see.  Inside, I look like this picture of my daughter.  (Only I never wore shoes with heels so high that I had to climb a ladder to get into them.  How does she walk in those?) 

For a split second, I tricked myself into the thrill of thinking that someone else saw a glimpse of the "real me."  I'd like to take this opportunity to publicly thank Erik for that.  Thank-you, Erik!  (And no, this is not my dog.)

The next thing I knew, I was having this flashback to the late 1980's.  Jack, who must have been all of forty at the time, was telling us about his morning.  On the way to work, he decided to swing by McDonald's drive-thru for coffee. The worker at the window was twenty-something and she was flirting with him outrageously.  She was a cutie and he was quite flattered.  Then, as she was giving him his change back, she winked at him and said, "I gave you the senior's discount."

While Walking

Although being a "one car family" sounds good on paper, in reality it's no fun.  Jer's car is in the shop getting fixed from the Big Little Crash of 2012.  It was supposed to be finished on Wednesday so we thought if we gave it a couple of extra days, we'd be safe in picking it up this morning.  (Auto body repair men work on their own timetables and they are incomprehensible to laymen.)  Bright and early this morning we arrived.  It will be ready after noon,  they said.

Jer usually gets to work way, way before 'bright and early' and he was in a rush to get going.  I told him to drop me off past the major intersection and I'd walk home.  Truth be told, if I would have had the presence of mind to grab my cell phone on the way out the door, I might have called a friend to hitch a ride home but walking is my favorite form of exercise and it was a good day for it. I arrived at our driveway an hour and a half later.  Whew!

When I was little, our family had only one car.  When Mom wanted or needed to use it, she simply took Dad to work.  Most days the car sat in the parking lot of the company where Dad worked and we walked wherever we wanted to go.  If an emergency arose, some Mom in the neighborhood who had a car that day would drive us to the doctor's office or to the hospital, depending upon the amount of blood involved.  If Mom had the car and somebody else's kid ran the lawnmower over their foot (yes, really) Mom would return the favor.

We don't live in a village, town or city; we live in a residential community.  This means that we don't have any businesses nearby.   None. No grocery store, no post office, no library.  To get groceries, I'd have to walk almost five-and-a-half hours round trip and I wouldn't want to be carrying much.  Becoming a single-car family lost its charm roughly at the same time I realized this.

I met a lot of dogs on my walk today though.  One eleven-month-old beauty with red fur, aptly named Reba, really seemed to like me.  While she was enjoying my personal space, her owner told me that they were going to start a twelve-step program next week.

Not Reba but still a cute dog.

"Isn't that courageous," I thought, "to tell a perfect stranger about your alcohol abuse issues?"  (They do say that to admit you have a problem is the first step toward recovery.)  While I was forming a sensitive response to this admission, he clarified, "Reba will make an excellent nursing home dog."

How wonderful that the world contains people (and dogs) that are willing to share their love and their time with others.  While I'm not willing to abandon my vehicle quite yet, I enjoyed meeting Reba today and I am pretty sure the folks in the nursing home are going to feel the same way. 

An Honest Mistake

Christmas is a crazy busy time for lots of us.  With so much going on, we can sometimes get a little frazzled.  Because Christmas fell on a Sunday this year, it was a little more hectic than usual for our minister friends.  They held five services and delivered two different sermons within twenty-four hours.  Back-to-back Christmas Eve and Sunday services are a lot of preparation and a lot of talking, too.

Although our friend Gary is a healthy guy, his dog is taking antibiotics with his meals.  By Christmas morning, Gary was distracted and rushed as well as a little sleep-deprived.  He put the dog's pills on the counter, got out his own vitamins - and then took the dog's meds by mistake.

Ministers are human, too.

Candy, Dogs and Grandma

Usually I refuse to turn the heat on until November 1st, half as a matter of pride and half because I'm cheap and don't like to pay money to utilities.  This year though I broke down and cranked up the thermostat last night after we got in from passing out Halloween candies.

The number of little kids in costume was depressingly low and we had bought three bags of candy, two of chocolate candy bars and one of Nerds which all kids like but I don't.  The first bag of mini-Snickers didn't even make it to last weekend - willpower not being my strong suit.  The second and third bags, candy choices I would never pick for myself, made it into the pumpkin and up the hill.  The lack of munchkins created an excess of candy though so I ended up visiting my neighbors and trading my candy for good (chocolate) stuff, which I felt compelled to eat before Jerry found out.  He's the candy consumption police at our house.

After the end of official trick-or-treat, I pretty-well collapsed on my bed in a sugar coma.  When I woke up, I was chilly so I flipped on the heat.   One night more or less is no big deal, is it?  And I did turn the heat down to 60 this morning. 

I also don't normally wear my shoes inside but since the floor was still a little chilly, I slipped on my trusty crocs.  As I sat down to type this story, I smelled the telltale whiff of doggie dew.  Nice.  I've been walking all over the house in these things the entire morning.

Funny how the memory gets triggered -- as I sat thinking about what to do, I remembered my little dog Betsey which my parents got us when we were kids.  Truth be told, Mom didn't like animals all that much and to add to her joy, she starting sneezing about a second after the dog came into the house.  Betsey became an outdoor dog, which in our world meant she was chained to a doghouse in the back yard.  She grew to be somewhat snippy (who could blame her?) and ultimately bit a kid who was cutting through our yard on the way home from school so the parents shipped my dog off to my grandparents' farm.

This was okay by me because I spent a lot of my weekends at that farm.  My grands had a huge garden which contained unlimited strawberries, tomatoes and corn on the cob in season.  Good eating!  My grandma made not only world's best molasses cookies but also the best sugar cookies on earth, both without the benefit of recipes.  My grandpa hid pink candies in his night stand and every night before bed we'd both have a big bowl of vanilla ice cream with Vernor's ginger ale poured all over it.  Who wouldn't want to stay at a place like that?  Sugar heaven plus my own little dog! I'm there.

My grandpa was a true jack-of-all-trades and as well as being a carpenter and a farmer, kept a chicken coop.  My grandma made soft, soft pillows and mile-high feather mattresses that you'd sink into forever.  It was dreamy to sleep there!  (I didn't connect the dots with the Sunday fried chicken dinners until I was older.) I got to help collect the eggs too.  This sounds more fun than it was because sometimes you had to slide your hand under a very irate hen to steal her egg.  I understand the phrase "madder than a wet hen" from personal experience.

Grandma, too, had a rule about no shoes in the house which I generally observed.   This day though I went out by the chicken coop to play with the dog, rushed right inside, went upstairs and dived into the bed, coat, shoes and all.  I heaved a sigh of pure pleasure.  A few minutes later though my grandma was looming above me and to say she was unhappy was a dramatic understatement. 

Normally I could do no wrong in her eyes - which is a trait to be admired in a grandparent - but even she had her limits.  Tracking dog poop into her house, up the stairs and into her feather bed was too much for even her to bear.

She didn't even have to yell at me though because as soon as I saw her I burst into tears.  I'm sensitive like that.  Today, having just tracked poop through my own house, I am able to understand a bit better how my grandma must have felt that day so many years ago.

Crocs are washable though and my house has hardwood floors.  I think I got off easy.

Sorry Gran!