Words by Cecily Pregerson SC ’29

Graphic by Sofia Vitale PZ ’28 and Anna Meisenzahl PZ ’28

Sitting in Seal Court, a suctioning sound drifts across the morning air: a lid releasing from the body of tupperware. My friends’ heads rise quickly, ears attuned to the sound. They search among the early risers and Motley queue, eager to catch sight of the trigger. Their eyes, devilishly bright with excitement, fall on a flat tub of a creamy white substance. The subject delicately picks up a spoon, unaware of her beholders, and dips it into the container. All eyes are on her as she takes a bite. She swallows and the tension breaks, the moment dissolving into our conversation. But it is not forgotten, not for me. Something has put my friends under a spell.

Later that day, I am walking with my friends Zoe, Allegra, and Edith when a spoon miraculously falls out of a purse. They stoop to pick it up, grasping for it in the dust like gold in a riverbed. Straightening up, Zoe tucks the spoon back into her bag, shoulders stiff with anticipation. Allegra and Edith share a look, then pat the bottoms of their bags. Looking closely, I can see the faint outline of a spoon through the leather.

That night, I knock on Zoe’s door to demand an explanation for the strange happenings. I ask about the spoons, the sound, and the purses. She pulls me into her room. An ominous black mini fridge sits in the corner. As its door swings open, I see the same flat tub as before. The container has a brightly colored label on the top that says “Bonjour!” and the word “Apricot.” Through the translucent plastic, a creamy substance forms placid white peaks. Under the fluorescent light of the fridge, it becomes clear. The tub is filled with kefir.

Looking back into Zoe’s eyes, reflecting the glowing fridge, I see the mark of a rare and real disease. I cannot risk befalling the same symptoms. The evidence points to one conclusion: Claremont is sick with Kefirmania.

The first recorded evidence of Kefirmania dates back to the Bronze Age, but it is suspected to have existed much earlier. It is widely believed that the first case of Kefirmania occurred at the event of kefir’s discovery, rendering the pioneer addicted and inadvertently spreading the practice of kefir-making through contagion. Another well-known outbreak impacted the nomadic tribes of North Caucasus, who used leather storage bags to circulate the kefir and infect strangers. It is not currently recognized by the CDC, though radical kefirists claim that anyone who has tasted kefir carries the Kefirmania pathogen, making them susceptible to total contagion. How Kefirmania sprung up in Claremont, though, is a mysterious matter.

In the days following my rendezvous with Zoe, I see Kefirmania everywhere. Under orange trees and behind the Margaret Fowler fountain, I watch students sneak spoonfuls of the coveted kefir. It seems to be on the tip of everyone’s tongue; throughout my sleuthing, I overhear whispers: “My life has never been the same,” “My snack of choice is now kefir,” and “I will never eat regular yogurt again.” Something has to be done, but first, I need to track down the epicenter.

Another Sunday. My alarm sounds at 8 AM. In the light of the morning, I can see the sediment built up from the night before. The desks are sticky from dried vodka and dining hall lemonade. The floor is lined in scuff marks from stumbling shoes. Beside me, my roommate shifts under her covers, blissfully spared the force driving me from my bed. I have to bring justice to Claremont. Tiptoeing out of the dorm, I turn to see a hoard of students marching towards Columbia Street. I follow the redundant stomp of their shoes against the cement as they take me down North College Avenue to the Claremont farmer’s market.

There, they line up one by one in front of an unmarked booth, populating the market with a sea of kefir devotees. I finally make it to the front and am met by a man clad in white. Black sunglasses shield his eyes. He says he has something special for me, gesturing towards a large cooler where regal tubs of kefir perch on ice. He holds five tiny spoons between his thumb and forefinger, tucking them under the lid of a tub in one swift movement and scooping equal amounts of yogurt onto each. He offers me a taste, and in the name of research I take a bite.

A refreshing feeling fills my mouth, like a swallow of cold water in a heatwave. The flavor is sweet and delicate, balanced by the tang of probiotics. I close my eyes to pick apart the mouthful, and find the bitter sugariness of a fig. I guess the flavor, and he leans across the counter to press a shiny red game buzzer. The victorious sound somehow makes the kefir taste even better. The rest is a blur. I walk away with not one but three tubs of kefir. As I hurry back to campus, my mind never leaves the plastic bag swinging from my hand, creating fantasies of when I will finally wield a spoon. So much for avoiding infection.

When I get back to campus, I am sure I have solved it: the alluring purveyor of the kefir stand has brought Kefirmania to Claremont. Asking around for confirmation, it is clear the charm of the seller goes a long way in spreading Kefirmania. One person says “he’s like a magician with the sampling spoons.” Certain I have cracked it, I ask one last question to my friends: how were you first introduced to the kefir? In a startling turn of events, there is one common denominator, and it is not the seller. Every person responds with one name: Zoe.

I hurry to confront my friend, feeling a sense of deja vu as I knock once again on her door. To evaluate the extent of the damage, I ask a number of questions. The first: how soon after purchase do you have the desire to buy more? She responds, “Usually when I walk away I get kinda sad that I have to wait. I ration my yogurt over the week so that I don’t have to be away from it too long.” Zoe’s illness is worse than I thought. When I ask how much money she has spent on kefir in the past year, she says, “I spend give or take 20 bucks every Sunday.” To whether she has been able to enjoy other yogurt after trying the kefir, her answer is, “No. I think I’m ruined.” Finally, when I ask if she thinks kefir was addictive, she affirms my suspicions, “I truly do think so. I have wondered sometimes if there’s drugs in it.” In truth, it is not drugs or secret ingredients that make the kefir addictive, it is the addiction itself. Zoe was the true superspreader of Kefirmania after all.