Inspired by the recent Stanford Fermented Food Conference, I imagined outlandish futures:that ultra-processed foods are a thing of the past; that crops are grown indoors after climate change devastates farmlands; that absolutely everyone makes home-brewed kombucha. This is a preview of a series about possible futures that will be published in Booch News over the coming weeks. New episodes drop every Friday.






Introduction: The World of 2100



It’s 2100, and kombucha? It flows from a worldwide network of fermentation vats. The Great Health Awakening of 2047 shattered BigSoda’s duopoly when personalized medicine proved that individual gut microbiomes determined optimal beverage choices. Corporate monocultures collapsed as distributed fermentation networks—powered by AI mycologists and quantum-enhanced SCOBYs—delivered custom-brewed probiotics directly to consumers based on their biometric profiles. Climate refugees discovered that kombucha cultures thrive in vertical hydroponic gardens, making it one of the most sustainable beverages on a warming planet. What began early in the 21st Century as a hipster health drink evolved into humanity’s primary liquid interface with symbiotic biotechnology.



In the Beginning: 2025



We sit here in 2025 at the apex of a global industrial civilization. Billions have been lifted out of poverty. In the developed world, living standards and life expectancy are at levels that were unimaginable 75 years ago. In 1950, there were no color televisions, smartphones, electric cars, PCs, or microwave ovens. I was born in the England of the 1950’s, at a time when rationing of food and gasoline was still in place. The polio vaccine had not been discovered. We had a limited diet, and without a refrigerator in the kitchen, my Mum shopped daily for vegetables, bread, and milk. Even in the USA, the land of plenty, there were only around 3,000 products in a typical supermarket. Seventy-five years later, by 2025, the number of SKUs had reached 26,000—dramatic developments in one lifetime.



What will the world be like in the year 2100, 75 years from now? When today’s toddlers are as old as I am today. What changes will have occurred in the economy, society, and the climate? What scientific breakthroughs?  What will our diets be like? Our nutrition? Our beverage choices?



Today, kombucha producers, both home brewers and commercial brands, are in the minority. Even in the hipster communities of Santa Monica, Marin County, and Hackney Wick, most people have never tasted kombucha. Back in 1950, no one, except for those with Russian grandmothers who kept a jar of ‘booch in the kitchen, had even heard of kombucha.



But imagine, for a moment, what it would be like if everyone drank ‘booch as regularly as they consume beer or wine, coffee, or tea today. What would the world of 2100 be like if this happened? What developments in science, production, and consumer awareness would usher in such a world?  Are there any seeds of change that have been planted today that we can, with intelligent scenario planning, project into the future? What is there in the kombucha market today that augur changes in global acceptance? What scenarios of a speculative look 75 years ahead can help commercial kombucha companies make better decisions today? Is this even possible?



This is a story of possibilities.



Prelude: The Morning Commute






The sun rose over San Francisco Bay in 2025. Maya ducked into the corner store before catching the ferry to work in the City. Checking the cooler, her eyes skimmed past the bright reds and neon blues of soda cans, the bottles of beer, the plastic jugs of sweet tea. Finally, she spotted what she was looking for. On the lowest shelf, half hidden, sat three lonely bottles of kombucha. She picked up a couple of ginger-lemon flavors, wincing at the cost, and wondered how long this small brand would last.



Maya tucked them carefully into her bag. As she stepped back into the foggy morning, she felt again the strange double life she lived—part of a culture invisible to most, yet deeply nourishing to her.



On the Sausalito ferry, most of the commuters clutched coffee cups or colas. Maya unscrewed the cap, a slight hiss escaped, and she savored the rising scents—lemon bright, ginger sharp.



“What’s that?” a man asked, eyeing her drink as if it might explode.



“Kombucha,” she said, smiling. “Fermented tea. It’s full of probiotics, good for your gut health. Gives you energy without the crash.”



He squinted, confused. “Tea that…ferments? Like beer?”



She nodded. “Kind of, but…”



But he had already turned back to his donut, dismissing her explanation as if it were a fad too complicated to matter. Maya sighed and sipped anyway. The fizz sparkled on her tongue. To her, kombucha was alive, a tiny rebellion in a world dulled by sugar and alcohol.



Maya had given up hoping that the refreshment bar on the ferry would stock kombucha. Neither did most of the cafes, bars, and restaurants in the City. Once, she tried to share her homebrewed batches with colleagues at work. She’d brought in mason jars filled with deep ruby hibiscus ‘booch, but her manager had frowned. Some report about a woman in Iowa getting sick had been enough to ban the jars. “Company liability,” he’d said.



The fridge in the break room was packed with soda and beer for the Friday happy hour. Her one bottle of ‘booch stood alone, waiting. She thought of her friend who owned a small kombucha brewery, fighting for shelf space, crushed by distributor fees. Outside, as the weekend got underway, laughter spilled from a bar. No one toasted with kombucha. Not yet.



Fast forward



Seventy-five years later, in 2100, morning light glinted on the Bay. Maya’s granddaughter, Hannah, stopped at the food truck that sold fresh kombucha. Rows of taps along the side of the converted trailer gleamed under the awning, each labeled with today’s flavors: hibiscus-mint, mango-ginger, rosemary-pear. She chose hibiscus-mint, watching as the server filled her insulated glass. The crimson liquid glowed, bubbles rising like laughter.



On the ferry deck, she lifted her cup to clink against a friend’s. Around them, dozens of commuters did the same. The air was filled with the scent of herbs and fruit, accompanied by the low hum of conversations carried on the breeze. Kombucha wasn’t questioned, wasn’t defended. It was shared. The drink was alive, and so were they. No hangovers, no sugar crash. Just a calm lift. Hannah took a sip. The taste was crisp, floral, and refreshing. She appreciated how it steadied her without a ragged caffeine edge. The drink was part of her, as natural as water.



The break room at work was fragrant with the smell of mango and ginger. Glass jars lined the shelves, each filled with fermenting tea. SCOBYs floated like strange jellyfish, their names written in marker on the jars: Luna, Old Faithful, Ginger Queen. Employees tended them the way earlier generations once watered houseplants. Feeding, checking, laughing when bubbles rose. The company provided jars, teas, and sugars, as well as space for everyone to brew. Meetings began with kombucha tastings. Instead of coffee jitters, there was a steady, cheerful lift.



Hannah cradled her own jar at her desk. She loved the ritual of brewing, of waiting, of tasting. For her, kombucha wasn’t rebellion. It was a connection—between people, between body and planet, between generations. She’d named her favorite SCOBY ‘Maya’; it was much more than a kombucha “mother”, it was a direct descendant of the one her grandmother had gifted her.



That evening, Hannah crossed the Justin Herman Plaza. It was alive with music. Old men played checkers at shaded tables. Children chased bubbles that shimmered in the late sun. Everywhere she looked, people held glasses of kombucha: families sharing mango brews, teens daring each other with spicy chili-lime, artists sipping earthy oolong blends.



At her favorite café in the Ferry Building, she sat looking over the sea wall that rose ten feet above the Bay, keeping the rising waters from flooding the street, and raised her cup. The hibiscus and mint tasted of earth, of leaf, of time itself.



Hannah thought of the stories her grandmother once told—of lonely bottles on dusty shelves, of puzzled looks from strangers. For Maya, kombucha had been an act of resistance. For Hannah, it was the taste of home.



What changed?



The arc between grandmother and granddaughter was not just personal; it was also profound. It was planetary. Climate change had reshaped agriculture, forcing humanity to rethink what it consumes. Grapes for wine had grown scarce; barley for beer was unreliable. Sugary sodas, once symbols of modern life, had become relics of wasteful abundance. In their place, kombucha rose—adaptable, sustainable, rooted in the wisdom of fermentation.



What Maya sipped in defiance, Hannah now shared in joy—between them stretched seventy-five years of struggle and transformation, from scarcity to abundance, from stigma to celebration.



Kombucha was no longer just a drink. It was memory, culture, resilience. And through its fizzing, tangy lift, the world had chosen life in a glass.







The transformation didn’t happen overnight. It began in 2046 when a powerful corporate executive watched her empire crumble while discovering that the future belonged not to those who could manufacture the most product, but to those who could nurture the most life.



Tune in next Friday to learn how ‘Our Fermented Future’ begins.



Disclaimer



This is a work of speculative fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, assisted by generative A.I. References to real brands and organizations are used in a wholly imaginative context and are not intended to reflect any actual facts or opinions related to them. No assertions or statements in this post should be interpreted as true or factual.



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