My First Startup Ended with a Bang
At the ripe old age of 15, I launched a craft soda empire from the family kitchen.
It started (and ended) with a bang...
(seeing this shirt brought back a whole phase of life & memories 😂)
I’ll never forget walking into what looked like a war zone one Monday morning. The yeasty aroma of over-brewed Root Beer hung thick in the air, sticky brown rivulets streaked the walls like abstract art, and shards of amber glass glittered like confetti from every surface.
One particularly ambitious bottle had launched its cap with such force that it left a permanent dimple in the ceiling: a crater from a failed space mission.
I clenched my jaw, took a deep breath, and began cleanup.
If I learned nothing else those first few months, I learned to persevere.
Then finally, after countless experiments testing sugar-to-yeast ratios, dialing in the perfect aging temperature and timing fermentation, I cracked the code.
I was ready to go to market (or at least the farmer’s market).
The soda was perfectly carbonated: crisp, with just enough bite to make your eyes water in the best way.
I hand-painted an old galvanized washbasin with my branding “Potlatch Soda Co.” (named for the river running near our home, where I’d spent countless summer afternoons cooling off) and set up shop in front of our family’s cheese booth.
Week after week, I sold out — all 100 bottles gone within hours.
Since the bottle caps weren’t twist-off, I personally opened each one.
With the precision of a bomb disposal technician, I’d gradually ease each cap off—holding the bottle low, distracting customers with cheerful small talk, and silently praying it didn’t detonate mid-sale (which did happen on occasion).
Then came this college-aged, shaggy-haired customer in a faded tie-dye shirt. He had that confident swagger of someone who'd never met a problem he couldn't handle.
He insisted on opening his own.
I warned him — repeatedly.
But he wouldn’t listen. “Bro, I got this,” he assured me.
My stomach knotted as I reluctantly handed over what I knew was essentially a soda-bomb and muttered some clumsy instructions about pointing it away from his face. He sauntered off toward a side alley.
I got back to selling, but a sense of impending doom sat heavy in my chest.
Twenty or so minutes later, there he was, coming back.
Hair plastered to his forehead like seaweed.
Shirt clinging, drenched and dripping.
He kept shaking his head, and sputtering and spitting every few seconds. He looked like he’d just been in an epic battle with a garden hose — and lost.
I braced myself.
But his grin was absolutely undefeated.
“Dude, that was SICK!” he yelled through the crowd, pumping his fist in the air. “I popped it, shoved it in my mouth, and there were three gushers going at once: one from each nostril and one straight out of my mouth. That’s some serious rizz, bro.”
I didn’t know what “rizz” was, but somehow it all made sense.
Today, my mom uses the old washbin as a flower planter in her greenhouse.
Not too long after that episode, the family authorities intervened.
The soda business was paused indefinitely due to a range of concerns — safety, liability, and the family name among them.
And so, the dream was shelved.
My budding entrepreneurial spirit, however, survived just fine.
—
This summer, when I was in Idaho, I peeked my head into my parents’ storage shed, and there they were, just how I left them 12 years ago. Boxes upon boxes of unopened bottles, waiting patiently for the day my 2-year-old Lucas is old enough to inherit the beverage empire, the recipe notes, and maybe a helmet.
Have a wonderful week, and go create more beauty — wherever you find yourself (even if all you’ve got for now is broken glass and sticky walls - for now :)
