Last week at the family reunion, my cousin served the most INCREDIBLE SOURDOUGH BREAD that she had made from scratch, and it was one of the best things I've ever had, maybe a little bit because I've barely eaten any bread the last year, but also because it was THAT GOOD. Eating it made me dream of a warm kitchen and me heroically just standing in the middle of it, all hips and returned emails, while my dough rose. I'll send you the recipe, she said, it's easy once you get the hang of it. And 'easy' hits me like a challenge. It's my training for a marathon, I can do it, right? Of course I can. I have flour, time, and kitchen. I can do this basic human thing. Cut to me, always last one on the boat, just discovering Hoka shoes and Ariana Grande, attempting my first sourdough starter. 7 days of feeding it like a third child, trying different flours, whole wheat and rye, different temperatures of water, and nothing, it just sits there, stinking of cheese, flat as pancake batter. It's supposed to double and turn into gorgeous loaves but it just sits there in a spot above the microwave, wondering why it's wearing a wool sock. The internet told me you might be too cold, I explain to the starter. So I put you in this sock. Does it help if I talk to you?
Will you ever grow, am I failing you? Are you hot? Do you love me?
My actual child cries for strawberries, to be hugged, read a book.
NOT NOW, MOM IS DOING SOMETHING, I say to my human child. I take my jar of rotting flour to the sink, to feed it.
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