Carbonating Resistance

As I sit on the rim of my bathtub beside my dozen brown, plastic bottles of homemade soda, I squeeze each bottle between my thumb and forefinger to test whether the sides compress or hold firm. In brewing terms, compression means no carbonation occurred, signaling failure. The only worse scenario is excess carbonation, in which the bottles transform into glass grenades that detonate, leaving sticky shards smattered around the room—hence my beginner’s plastic. As a finicky drinker, I ventured into the home brewing field to create a fitting complement to the food at my upcoming dinner party. The costs of alcohol proved prohibitive and I lacked time to concoct my own, while my opinion of name-brand sodas fizzled out long ago.

I recall forgoing Sprite, my soda of choice, during an early health crusade at age 13, but I have since recovered enough to appreciate sugar, along with butter, oil, and cream, for their gastronomical value. Yet with the exception of guilty indulgences such as Shirley Temples, I still refuse commercial sodas, a silent rejection of the marketing, waste, processing, and price gouging exercised by the makers of Coke, Pepsi, and the like. Few consumers recognize the gross profits reaped through sales of soda, as many restaurants earn their highest profit margins not from beef and potatoes but what amounts to chemically-flavored sugar-water that costs pennies to produce. Efforts to increase profits thus lead eateries, fast-food chains in particular, to place a high value on soda. At Columbia the trend accounts for the proliferation of vending machines, so commonplace that they blend into the urban landscape. The astronomical increase in the consumption rate of soft drinks among children reveals the success of such product placement, particularly in low-income areas, which encourages my resistance to invest in Diet Coke and its brethren.

Yet like other branded monstrosities, soda originated as a positive creation, offering a diversion from Americans’ penchant for whiskey. In fact, the term “soft drink” arose in opposition to “hard liquor,” nomenclature chosen over such appetizing titles as “aerated water,” “syrup water,” and “marble water.” Classic sodas likewise stayed true to their roots—literally.

Root beer, the drink that epitomizes unadulterated soda nostalgia with the image of foam dribbling over the lip of a sweating glass bottle, derives from a variable assortment of plant roots including the creeping vine sarsaparilla, the root bark of the sassafras tree, ginger root, and burdock, in addition to hops and an assortment of optional plant flavorings. Any attempts to find authentic root beer will prove largely fruitless as even “natural” sodas such as Blue Sky are no more than corn syrup and extract. One option remained for my dinner party: to brew my own.

Nestled amongst a strip of tacky antique stores in my hometown of Hillsboro, Ore. resides Main Street Brewing, a homage to the state’s microbrew culture and renegade streak, which produces messy politics but reputable alcohol. In contrast to the Oregonian norm, I once failed to distinguish Pabst Blue Ribbon from the favorite microbrew of a friend, the son of a major beverage distributor. To avoid a similar embarrassment, I tuck myself safely in the store’s soda corner. Shelves of extracts with deceptively down-home names like “Old Hickory” catch my eye, but closer inspection reveals them to contain the same artificial ingredients found in soda syrups, though at the least home brewing with an extract allows me to avoid the high fructose corn syrup found in most commercial sweetened drinks. No rejection of agricultural commoditization is complete without renouncing industrially processed corn. But here I admit my weakness, as I purchase root beer extract and sooth my purist inclinations by assuring that I will brew the ginger ale from scratch.

Three hours later, armed with one liter plastic bottles, a large pot, a funnel, two packets of champagne yeast, loads of sugar, extract, a jar of Oregon honey and grated ginger, I envision myself a brewer and, ever so slightly, a revolutionary, denying Coke a place at my table and suggesting my guests do likewise. Yet despite my preparations, the root beer came out sticky, requiring re-bottling after I dump a preponderance of settled yeast into the last container. I move onwards to the more gratifying task of cooking ginger ale, a mixture of honey, ginger root, water, lemon, and yeast. After 24 hours, I bottle the blonde liquid and place it beside the root beer, no air bubbles yet in sight.

The dinner date arrives and my guests find bottles of flat root beer lingering in the tub, but the ginger ale proves glorious. The ginger taste tickles my tongue unlike any commercial soda, affirming success and illustrating karmic redemption for my attempt to cheat using artificial root beer extract. Though perhaps not as satisfying for my guests as the local brew, surely we all benefit through the absence of the branded soda cans. While by no means world-changing, I view the home brewing gesture as an expression of dissatisfaction with an industry with small origins but prolific impacts on human health, both bodily and sociologically, through the erosion of local differentiation. After all, if you or I cannot produce something, should we consume it?

Becky Davies is a Columbia College junior majoring in urban studies. Home Ec runs alternate Mondays.