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February 21, 2016

The picture is from King Arthur Flour

When I was young and single, my roommate made some sourdough starter. When I got married and moved out, I took some of her starter with me. I had it for a couple of years but then we moved from Washington, DC to New York.

I lost the starter in the move.

No fear, though, because my brother had some, and he gave it to me. It had been given to him by a friend who turned out to be headline-worthy batshit crazy*, and that’s a long story unto itself, and one that I can’t talk about but hopefully he will put it in the comments somewhere.

When we moved to New Hampshire, I lost the starter in the move. That’s probably a good thing, because I’d always feel a little off about using sourdough starter that once belonged to a headline-worthy, made-for-tv-movie-worthy convicted murderer.

No fear, though, because in New Hampshire, a friend gave me some sourdough starter.

Then we moved to Japan and I could not take it with me.

In Tokyo, a couple of friends who were bakers gave me a start of sourdough. I did not lose it in the move, but in the pregnancy, when I could not even think about looking at it.

I’ve lived in Dallas for over a decade. I’ve tried to start my own sourdough several times, but instead of a bubbly sponge, I get a putrid mess, and flies, or just a whole lot of nothing.

This morning, a new friend stopped by with a jar of her sourdough starter.

This is a huge deal to me.

Thank you.





*Not in the legitimate mental illness way but in the criminal way.



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