My girlfriend, Jessa, who I live with, bought a bottle last week on a morning when she didn't feel well. While it did not greatly ease her sore throat, she did marvel at her improved bowel movement.
This lightly fermented tea with east-asian origins, has become an urbanite's delicacy. It has a refreshing fizz; it's not overly sweet, and it has a piquant tartness. How sophisticated. It's often revered as packed with anti-oxidants, and as an effective probiotic. As the wikipedia article informed me, none of its touted benefits have much scientific backing.
Of course, like any conveniently bottled health-benefit with a promotedly non-western mystique, kombucha is not cheap: $3-4 for 16 Oz, which adds up as a daily habit. I'll need to conduct more research into the home-brewing method, which requires a live SCOBY.
Yesterday afternoon, when I felt achey and groggy, I accepted Jessa's offered sip of kombucha, and felt brief relief. It felt almost like the calming jolt I get from a Coke or Sprite, but with the added faith that I was consuming something healthy! I have not looked at the nutrition label.
Lo and behold, a bowel-movement later, I felt better. And this was not the anxious laxative feeling of a coffee-poop, either; it felt ~natural~.
Jessa is a few weeks into a busier schedule, so she bought a few bottles of kombucha to help combat the symptoms of stress. Like so many New Yorkers, I'm already craving those gentle bubbles and sharp-edged fruity taste as an aide to my busy busy life. Ah, the commodifications of care.