Puffy lives in a tree house in Ditmas Park.
There was marmalade stewing in a heavy orange pot.
When she said goodbye, she handed me a thick layer of kombucha mold.
Known as the mother, it makes fizzy fermented tea.
I spilled some in my handbag.
Now a batch is brewing in the kitchen.
Yeast is everywhere. I remember the wild yeast I caught in Greenpoint and the bread it made that smelled so terrible and flopped on the pan, a sick animal.


Author: Emily

Writer/ Librarian

3 thoughts on “Kombucha”

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