What's that Smell?

There's that smell again.

For the past week, whenever I've walked into our living room, I've smelled something rancid.

Was it rotting fruit? Nope. Everything looked fresh.

Was it the fridge or the garbage? All clear.

Did something die in the other room and I haven't found it, amongst some old bills and papers? Doubt it.

But then, all of a sudden, it dawned on me.

My Kombucha.

The smell was coming from the fermentation of Kombucha, a centuries-old fermented tea that some people drink for its purported medicinal benefits.

A few weeks ago I took a local class that showed me how to nurture what my instructor called the  Kombucha "mother" -- basically its starter -- by concocting a warm environment of bacteria and yeast using black tea. After the class, I brought home a beautiful mother in a jar, and brewed some tea to make my own Kombucha. I placed the mixture in a warm window and simply forgot.

Until today.

My Kombucha has another week or so of fermentation, and, for now, the smell is a little off-putting. Until it's ready, I just might have to open a window.

I'll let you know if it's worth the stink.

Motherhood Circa 1965

My mother raised four children without driving a car.

Being the youngest, I spent many summer days walking with my mother a few blocks to purchase and carry the day’s meal. We went almost every day – there wasn’t much a middle-aged woman and a four-year-old could carry – but going to the market was our routine. I never questioned the monotony, but I imagine my mother did.

My summers were spent going to the grocer, and when I became older they included many unsupervised play dates down the street, or worse yet, adult-less supervision in my parent’s backyard swimming pool. My mother never cared to watch us swim. I learned to swim by myself and my new-found summer friends discovered the joys of the water when they visited me on Mansfield Avenue.

My favorite picture of my mother is with me, walking hand-in-hand as we prepared to shovel a driveway after the great Chicago snowstorm of 1967. I was the same age Joe is now – 4 – and I’m happy. I hate snow but for some reason, on this particular day in my life, I’m sporting a huge grin and I’m happy.

That photo is more than 40 years old, and at 46, I’m the same age my mother was in the picture. I’m still happy and if my mother were still alive, she would be smiling too. She would be happy that I’m a 4-year-old’s mother, and happy that I am the wife of a man who respects my independence. My hunch is she would say, “It’s about time you got out of the damn cold.” She was the one who dreamed big.

My summers are spent driving now, going to the occasional grocer, or maybe four because I have choices. And Joe’s life is filled with parks, libraries, parties, restaurants, museums, beaches, fresh-picked fruit, and adult supervision, at least for now.

I’d like to think Joe is happy. Maybe we need to shovel some snow ... and take a picture.

The Greatest Invention

The washing machine. The toilet. Birth control. All are some of the greatest inventions of all time. But for me, the Roomba ranks right up there -- in theory.

I was skeptical at first. How could a fully automatic, cordless device have the brainpower to pick up the mounds of dog hair and five years of accumulated dust in our house -- not to mention miscellaneous amounts of string, paper and the occasional dog goo? But trust me when I tell you this: it works and it works rather well. But like a lot of love relationships, someone always will screw you in the end.

This past Christmas, I bit the bullet and bought a $100 model that works on hardwood floors. Still not brimming with confidence, I used it to suck up the dirtiest part of our home: our bedroom.

Now don't get me wrong. I like a VERY clean bedroom. I like a mite-free bedroom. I like clean sheets and a freshly made bed. But with two chickens, two dogs, a four-year-old son, and a husband who hates farm chores, a dust and hair-free bedroom has taken a backseat to everyday living.

Within 30 minutes, the Roomba ate most of the dust and mounds of dog hair. Our bedroom floor actually looked clean and better yet, it FELT clean to the touch. I was in love.

For some, the greatest thing about the Roomba may be the clean floors but for me, it allows me to do other things like surf the Internet, watch television, or write this blog.

I've talked to others who loved their Roomba but were disappointed that it failed to do its magic after three months. Mine is still going moderately strong -- enough to be one of the greatest inventions of its kind, at least in my book.