My Sad Sourdough

My wild yeast sourdough failed to rise. Though I consulted with an actual sourdough expert baker and followed his instructions to the letter, my starter was a bit of a non-starter in the oven. After weeks of coaxing along the bubbly yeasty mess and carefully folding it into this basic bread recipe, I opened my oven door to this. And I cried. (continued)

What had I done wrong? Why did it seem like I was the only failure among my gaggle of pandemic Betty Crockers? The dense, very sour loaf fell out of the pan like a brick...and then refused to toast. What bread doesn't toast?! (continued)

Standing in front of the toaster, with un-toastable bread, the floodgates opened. The stress of this pandemic poured out of me, and I just sat there, in the middle of the kitchen, and let it out.

After I pulled myself back together, I thought a little about my adventure. This wasn't the universe sending me a message about my ability to bake bread. This was the universe reminding me that even when we do everything "right," we aren't guaranteed the outcome we expect.

I expected a loaf of tasty carbs, but what was the real outcome? Just taking part in this new baking ritual shared by so many of us - a ritual speaking to our very basic fears of how we will survive all this - connected my spirit to others. Sharing the progress and missteps provided shared moments of hope and joy on social media. I made a new friend. I filled some of the empty time with a project rather than a rumination on the end of the world. And most importantly, it helped me cry and release so much of the sorrow I was carrying. I'll call that a success.