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.