all that effort and a sourdough starter

Ah, effort. How many times have I tried and failed, strained and struggled only to realize I haven’t made any progress, despite the energy expended in the process.

This has been my lesson lately. All kinds of striving has been happening on my part since the beginning of the year: I’ve been trying to make new friends and keep the old, trying to make something of a career and fit self-worth in there somehow, trying to make a home in a temporary place.

Maybe the lesson here is to stop trying so hard?

Sometimes, when everything is working in concert, what seems like spinning wheels all of a sudden results in something amazing. The jumbled mess aligns in a moment to reveal one single, beautiful path. Clarity often comes after a storm, when the torrent has washed away all remaining options.

And then, sometimes, things fall apart. The falcon cannot hear the falconer. The sourdough starter wastes my time. And other such metaphors.

But you know this disappointment. The instance when you put an incredible amount of effort into achieving something great and in the final hours it crumbles before you. When friendships disintegrate. When efforts to save another human from themselves, from others, ends in nothing short of tragedy.

Not one of us can anticipate what tomorrow holds. We can neither make plans actually happen, nor can we put stake in the future with much certainty. Few things are certain: the pull of the tides to the lullaby of the moon, the inevitability of death. We are under the illusion that we have our little worlds under control.

Yet the one thing we can control is what happens in the aftermath. How we pick up the fragments of well-laid plans determines how do the next time around.

I made a from-scratch sourdough starter with freshly ground rye flour. I fed and watered it for seven days, watching as it bubbled, gently frothed, subsided and began to ripen.

I ground eight cups of flour from spelt berries and kneaded it all into my starter mixture by hand, relishing the push and pull of the sticky dough in the bowl. I shaped a mound and let it rise in a warm place overnight, and the next morning I baked with immense anticipation.

The result was hard, flat, dense, but flavorful. With a tart sourness and a nutty aroma, my bread did not yield easily to the pressure of a knife, but still managed to slice into passable tokens, vehicles for butter for a day until it became too hard to eat.

Despite the effort, the energy, the kneading and striving and the failure, it was at the very least a little bit good.

And in spite of it all I will probably try (and fail, and try and fail and try) again.

Sourdough Starter from Nourishing Traditions

8 c. freshly ground rye flour

8+ c. cold filtered water

2 large glass bowls

cheesecloth

wooden spoon

Combine 1 c. flour and 1 c. water in a large glass bowl, adding more water if necessary to make the mixture soupy. Stir with a wooden bowl. Cover with cheesecloth and set aside.

“Feed” the starter every day for seven days, adding 1 c. flour and enough water to moisten it all, always transferring the starter to a new, clean bowl. In a few days the mixture will bubble and start to smell ripe. Continue to feed for seven days, until volume has increased to three quarts.

From this soupy gloop — alive, reactive — you can make bread. If you eat bread, all the better to cut out the middleman and sustain yourself. If you don’t eat bread, like me (mostly), make this for the one you love, especially if the one you love talks about sourdough incessantly. Or take a warm loaf to a neighbor, wrapped in a cotton towel, or use a crusty round as a centerpiece for a rustic dinner. Nothing can make you feel like both a peasant and a king with such simple pleasure.

bygone summers and honeysuckle fizz

My first memory of honeysuckle is tied up in childhood. After a summer t-ball game we would wander back to the creekbed – sometimes me and a little boy with red hair and freckles, sometimes me and my best friend, whose complexion was so fair she was nearly translucent.

We’d pluck the blossoms, orange, yellow, white, pinch off the ends and suck the sweet nectar from the blooms. The carnage we left in our wake got lost in the tall grass, the poison ivy tangled up in its kinder cousin, and still there was more honeysuckle climbing up the trees beyond our reach.

The sweetness of summers then seems almost too much. Was it real? Did I wear cutoff overalls, play in the creek, roast marshmallows over a campfire, stargaze on the trampoline, fall asleep to the orchestral swell of cicadas and peepers? (Yes, I did. I wanted to be Scout from To Kill A Mockingbird.)

It all seems so far removed now, that season worth celebrating because school was out and so was the sun. It was simple — A pure season, a celebration.

Looking ahead to this summer I anticipate a little less simplicity, a little less celebration. We will take refuge from the punishing desert heat with our iced tea and our ceiling fans and everything will be burnt to a crisp. We will say goodbye to friends as they move across the country, across continents, ahead of us. We will work as hard as we can to make the future come a little faster. But in all of it I’m hoping to bring an attitude of celebration — to see the good and commendable, the commemorative in every day.

Honeysuckle Fizz

1 Tbsp. vanilla orange vodka

1 Tbsp. St. Germaine elderflower liqueur

champagne or sparkling wine, chilled

1 lemon

ice cubes

Combine the liqueur and vodka in a small glass with ice and pour desired amount of champagne over. Peel a small segment of a lemon and rub around the rim of the glass, finally nestling the peel into the glass with the cocktail. If the end result is too sweet, add fresh lemon juice and a little more champagne. I found this to be delicious with a splash of Perrier, too.

To make the vanilla orange vodka: using this suggestion, I found that making small batches of infused liquor before mixing a cocktail yields the freshest results. For this, combine a cup of Ketel One vodka in a small mason jar with a small vanilla bean, halved, and two slices of an orange. Seal tightly and store in a cool, dark place, like your spice cabinet. I let mine marinate for about four days to reach the desired flavor concentration. The vodka ended up tasting like a fiery orange creamsicle, which was exactly what I was hoping for.

waffles and a letter to my mother

To my mama:

How alike we are. I notice it more as I get older that I am speaking your phrases, using your laugh, gesturing with your hands (although I will never have such elegant hands as you). As a new wife, I think often of how life must have seemed when you and dad were first married, and looking at you now I hope I can be as happy, as gracious, as wise.

I think about how much I treasure our phone calls, even though half the time I’m too caught up in washing dishes or working on a project to put things down, really listen, and talk. This is the formal declaration of the end of that nonsense. Every time you exclaim with that particular note of joy in your voice when you answer the phone, I feel a stab of guilt over every time I’ve tried to do two things at once while talking to you.

Because I know how important it is to show you and to tell you, in little ways ever day, how glad I am that you’re my mother. I don’t want to dial your number one day to complain about the terrible job some dry-cleaner did or ask for advice on how to best leaven a cake only to remember that you aren’t there to call anymore. I don’t want that sinking pit in my stomach to remind me of all the times I failed to completely express my happiness at some good thing you’ve done for me, all the times I didn’t connect with you over a cup of coffee and a magazine.

For as much as you have taught me – about relationships, money, work ethic, compassion, service, dressing well, shopping for deals, driving – I still have so much to learn. You are an incredible woman with a vast store of strength inside you. Your heart is full of selflessness and optimism, and it has no rivals in capacity for love. The creativity inside you is busting at the seams, trying to get out. And I want to soak it all up.

Happy mother’s day to my mama and my friend. Thank you for being who and what you are, and for helping make me who and what I am.

— your daughter

Buckwheat Waffles with Hot Buttered Apple Chutney

If you’re lucky enough to live nearby your mother, make her some of these this weekend. You never need a reason to make waffles or to do something nice for the woman who birthed you, but thankfully Mother’s Day provides a nice excuse.

For waffles, adapted from Nourishing Traditions:

2 ½ c. freshly ground buckwheat flour

2 c. full-fat Bulgarian yogurt (or buttermilk, kefir, or acidic water)

2 egg yolks, lightly beaten

2-4 Tbsp. maple syrup

2 Tbsp. melted butter

1 tsp. sea salt

4 egg whites

2 tsp. cinnamon

Soak flour in yogurt overnight. In the morning, mix with egg yolks, melted butter, maple syrup, salt and cinnamon. In a separate bowl, beat egg whites until stiff – fold into batter gently. Pour onto a hot waffle iron and cook until crisp. If making enough for a group, keep waffles warm in an oven set to 200 degrees.

For the chutney:

4 small apples, cored and roughly chopped

2 Tbsp. butter

1 Tbsp. maple syrup

2 tsp. apple cider vinegar

1 tsp. cinnamon

1 tsp. coriander

¼ tsp. cardamom

½ tsp. ginger

¼ tsp. cloves

¼ tsp. salt

few grind of black pepper

dash of nutmeg

dash of cayenne

Melt butter in a small saucepan and cook apples, covered, over medium heat for 10-15 minutes. Apples will soften and release moisture. Reduce heat to low.

Stir in apple cider vinegar, maple syrup and spices and simmer until it make a thick paste.

Add a splash of water if more moisture is needed, or a dash of coarse mustard or mustard seeds if you’re daring.

Category Archives: Food

all that effort and a sourdough starter

bygone summers and honeysuckle fizz

waffles and a letter to my mother

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