New Rising Relationship

 

Just about a week ago I found myself in a new relationship.  It happened in the way so many relationships do.  I saw details on line, thought to myself, “hmmm, looks interesting” and I clicked a button.

I had talked it over with my spouse, and we agreed that I wasn’t being challenged in our current situation.  We’d become bored and stagnated.  And to top it off, the way things were, we often found ourselves feeling less than well.

So I clicked the button.

I was now initiating a relationship, for that is surely what it is, A Relationship, with sourdough starter!

How hard could it be?  Especially since the several initial articles I’d read summed it up as Easy.  And Healthy. And better for gut health.  We’d found that although I’d been baking all our bread for the past year, (we haven’t bought one loaf since March 2020), and while we’ve loved it, our guts had occasionally complained.

So I arranged whole wheat flour, water, several cups, a kitchen scale, some plastic and wooden spoons, (apparently some folks suggest starter may not like metal) and a quart jar.  How hard could this be?

Quick mix and set in a warm corner of the kitchen.  This was day time.  There were lots of warm corners in the kitchen.  Starter needs fairly warm temps.  75 to 85 degrees Fahrenheit.  No problem.

And then it got to be midnight and our house temp became 67.  Where were there warm little corners?  In our bed?  Nope, this new relationship is not going There!

I wrapped him up, said goodnight and hoped for the best.

Next morning I check up on my new friend.  Wow!  He’d practically filled his jar!  He was almost 3 times his original size!  This was going to be a breeze!  I could almost taste the wonderful sourdough bread I’d soon be baking.

I stirred it down, removed a lot more than half, felt saddened at disposing of the excess and fed the remainder.  113 g of room temp water, 113 g flour. 

Next morning, same thing….almost full quart jar!  Wow!  I was kicking this ancient art. 

Next morning, little sad puddle of dead looking glue.  Barely a bubble.  Reminding me of the texture and smell of the flour paste I’d made as a child.  Poured off 113 g of the sticky mess, tossed the remainder and changed the receptacle.  Nearly resorted to a blow torch to clean the jar.  It WAS the old fashioned paste!  And it had STUCK!

That day it got two feedings.  I was beginning to think I might have to reach out to nearby hospitals for a resuscitator.  This was a victim in a near death situation.

So here I am, 1 week into this new relationship.  We’ve named him Doughy.  Bedtime has become a nightmare! He’s never happy with the temperatures in the house, the microwave with a night light on is “too hot”, the counter at night is “too cold” and I am very near the point of giving him his eviction notice.  But I’m stubborn, if nothing else.  I’ve now read enough stories of foster parents of starters to know mine isn’t all that different from others.  I’ll hang in, giving him some time to wake up and grow.  But I’m still baking the other kind of bread, guts be damned.