Montana Woman Magazine, Issue No. 7, July/August 2020

Page 12

FOOD & SPIRITS |

Erin Belmont

house

of

fer ments

BY KIM COVILL

We

arrive at the House of Ferment’s vendor stall at the farmer’s market in Hamilton, Montana, around 8AM on a chilly but clear, bright-blueskied day. It’s early May, and dandelions and tulips already adorn the grass in downtown Hamilton. This is the first market of the season, and it’s not a normal season by any means— the state of Montana has been in lockdown for about two months due to covid-19. 50 miles to the north, the city of Missoula will not be opening their farmer’s market for another couple of weeks, at least. Erin Belmont, owner and founder of House of Ferments, is excited for market season, but doesn’t know what this year, in particular, will look like. “We’re still doing decent business,” she says when asked about how covid-19 has affected House of Ferments. “I’m a little bummed we can’t hand out samples, but hopefully we’ll be able to in a month or two.” She goes on to tell me that samples are a big part of how she sells products to new customers at market. Though kombucha, a fermented tea made from yeast and a culture of bacteria, has been in the limelight of the health food craze for several years now, it

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m o nt a n a w o ma n ma g a zi ne | is s ue 7

is still not a mainstream beverage. “The AppleSpice flavor is kind of the gateway kombucha for people,” Erin says of one of the specific flavors we have on tap today. It is sweet, bubbly, and tastes a lot like apple pie. Due to social distance protocols, only half of the vendors that make up a “normal” market are present today. There’s a mild air of nervousness among folks setting up their tents and tables. Along with this being the first market of the season and folks having to work out the kinks that naturally arise after winter dormancy, is the question of covid-19. Erin and I wear masks, though not all the vendors, nor all the patrons, do. Erin asks me to wrap the kombucha kegs with large ice packs she has brought in a cooler. She hands me what appears to be an old, sunfaded set of waders with the legs cut off, and an equally old and faded LL Bean puffy vest. “These’ll support the ice packs,” she says. Then, noticing my amused expression, she adds, “I got ‘em at a thrift store, what can I say?” I dress the kegs like children, which they resemble, albeit with little taps for heads.


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