My brother went to Florida with Uncle Click, and I had to feed his chickens while he was gone. I was scared of them, but he was paying me to do it, so I prayed really hard as I went down to the pen that none of them would take a wedge out of my leg or anything. I survived.
It’s always been a problem through the centuries - finding someone to feed your pest. I mean pets. Freudian.
I’ve had friends come through the years and feed the rabbits, the cat, the goldfish, and the turtle, but a couple of times my sister asked me if I would feed her starter while she was gone. The first time I did it, it was scarier than the chickens. I didn’t know what I was in for, but she said it was in a jar in the fridge, and she left the instructions on the counter. I was expecting somebody to be swimming around in said jar - someone named Starter and, I guess, named after either a famous football position or a car part.
I think there were probably multiple someones swimming around in there, but they’re all microscopic which makes them good for your gut when baked at 350 degrees. Also tasty little critters.
Well, that was back in the first sourdough craze, the eighties, which if you’re doing the math, I was exactly two and a half when my sister had me feed her starter. I was a genius little thing.
Sourdough ruled the eighties, along with geese with ribbons around their necks, and wood tater ‘n’ onions boxes in the shape of a junior podium. We had sourdough withdrawal in the late nineties until now, when people got more afraid of gluten than I was of the chickens. The sisters quit handing you a loaf of it sealed in Saran wrap and a curly ribbon when you came in the door for Sunday School or just Tuesday sewing group. We had to go to Cracker Barrel to get a fix.
I don’t know what most of the women did with their pet jars in the fridge, but I think there may have been a “Don’t ask; don’t tell” movement of poured out fungus in the woods off I-65.
My sister kept hers, and fed it faithfully or hired a sourdough sitter when she was out of town. We ate good at Thanksgiving and New Year’s because of it. While the rest of the world was relying on Sister Schubert, we had Sister Cindy. And I mean, when you think about how long that jar of goop has been in the refrigerator, and how many moves it has made, outliving the Whirlpool itself, this bread tastes remarkably good to be 42 years old.
Well, I don’t have to tell you, sourdough has made a comeback! It was bound to happen. Like bell bottom jeans and brown Pyrex bowls, it was bound to happen. We’re rushing out the door to beat Betty to the farmer’s market before the last loaf is sold. And when the Sourdough movement resurged, it did it with a vengeance.
You have to feel sorry for those of us in the first round when we thought it was just a slice of bread that crumbled into a mess on your plate at the first touch of a butter knife. Back then we only had bread and . . . another piece of bread.
Now it’s the whole kitchen sink. We can order sourdough cinnamon rolls, chocolate muffins, cookies, orange spins, strudels, pumpkin tortes and . . . What are you feeding those microorganisms in the jar? This is amazing!
And because it is purportedly good for the digestive tract, the most health-conscious thing to do would be just order all of that. Don’t ever say I wasn’t concerned for the wellbeing of my family’s guts.
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