A New Pet Peeve

This morning, as I stirred squashed grapes, water, and flour together until they congealed into a gooey paste, I felt an eerie kinship to Dr. Frankenstein. After all, wasn’t I combining several organic elements in the attempt to create something even slightly more alive? Trust me, once you double check to make sure no metal utensils or bowls have been involved, place the concoction in a warm, well protected area, and check anxiously for signs of bubbles each morning, a sourdough starter really can become your “baby” so to speak. The only problem is, that at this time, I really don’t need any more babies. I really don’t even have time for a pet, not even the quiet, housebroken type like a sourdough starter. A starter still needs to be fed, and even played with. Of course, it certainly has cats beat in regards to the treats it gratefully delivers to its master. My last starter left pizza dough, bagels, and loads of bread before it met its demise. In short, I’m sorry to say that it died a slow death of starvation in my frigerator and then was dumped unceremoniously down the drain. Due to no fault of its own, its pungent, tangy odor of which I had once been so fond became absolutely abhorrent to me during the first few months of my second pregnancy.

“Don’t open the refrigerator door!” I remember warning my oblivious husband. It was too late, before I could stop him, he had unleashed the aroma into the entire house.

“I don’t smell anything,” he protested. Nevertheless, the kitchen was rendered useless for around forty-eight hours unless I cared to suffer extreme nausea. Still, after all that, I was reluctant to make a quick end to the little guy. For whatever reason, guilt, laziness, trepidation of actually opening the container and experiencing the full magnitude of the smell, I let the starter languish slowly away into a blob of goo, fermentation, and mold. Not a pretty sight I assure you.

Months have passed and the tiny baby that triggered such violent changes in my olfactory sense is actually over ten weeks old. My husband has been not so subtly hinting that I bring another batch to life. He stops forlornly at the bagel displays in the grocery store and comments, “Lender’s Bagels; I used to like those, but you’ve spoiled me for good.” Last week, he came home from an in-service where fresh bagels from Panera were offered and he told me pitifully, “I tried to eat one, but it just tasted like rubber.” A few months ago he asked if in honor of his birthday I might make a dozen bagels. That, he said, would be all the present he would need. Ha! All the present he needs, my foot. He knows good and well that once I get a starter going bagels will appear every few days, more bagels than we could ever possibly eat. Once a starter comes to life, it must be fed, and used, or, well, I’ve already gone into that.

Well, Jeff’s birthday is in less than twenty days and for better or worse, his present is burbling to life on my counter top now. What do you know? I’ve already had to resist the urge to check for bubbles and I know there couldn’t possibly be any for at least another twelve hours. Actually, there might not be any ever. Apparently, from all I’ve read, my fetal starter must harness the wild yeasts from the air in order to begin the fermentation process. Of course, I could have added dried yeast which is probably the way ninety-nine percent of sour dough bakers coax their starters to life. If I’m going to do something though, I usually end up doing it the most authentic way—or in other words, the hardest way possible. So if bubbles appear tomorrow letting me know a few of the wild yeasts which scientists aren’t even sure exist have been captured from the air of my kitchen, of course, I’ll feel a bit of motherly pride toward the fledgling batch of goo. I’ll probably also make all sorts of internal promises to insure this blob doesn’t suffer the same fate as its predecessor.

In the area of cultivating batches of starter, some people must have fortitude and commitment that far exceeds my own. These traits are quite possibly genetic since certain families can manage to keep a starter thriving for generations. When I was babying my first batch, I read longingly of mixtures, which had been kept alive lovingly since their journey across the prairie on the Oregon Trail. It is claimed that such starters have a flavor beyond compare—that the longer they live the more desirable baked goods they yield. I remember laying in bed night after night scheming on how I might become chummy with one of these honored sourdough owners and then after a bit offer to help them ensure the continued legacy of their starter by caring for a bit of it in my refrigerator. Luckily, for my sake and that of sour dough posterity, I never obtained any of this cherished sludge. Just imagine how guilt-striken I would be at actually dumping such an esteemed century old batch of goo down the drain since I was virtually crippled with guilt at parting with my mere run-of-the-mill glump. I can remember as my poor starter was gasping for it’s very last breaths in the fridge, eulogizing over how it had only reached a ripe old age of a month, but already matured in taste somewhat. Oh well, here I go again. Here’s to second chances.

Anyone want to guess at my New Year’s Resolution?