So I'm into yeast breads. Making them, not eating them. Well, eating them too but anyway... I bought this awesome bread cookbook and I found a recipe for sourdough bread that I was really excited about. (I just reread that and it sounds a little odd. I think I'm entering a manic phase. Not that I'm bi-polar. I think I could be, if I tried. I'm just too lazy. I'm too lazy to be bi-polar; does that have a car ribbon?)
But I digress...So I was really excited until I saw how long it took to make the starter. 7 days. Seven. Days. I couldn't tell you the last time I did anything for seven consecutive days but I'm pretty sure it didn't involve yeast. And you have to feed it twice a day, like a pet. Until it tastes and smells sour, so a pet you're trying to kill. And as you feed it, it grows. Now I know yeast is "alive" and all, but "alive" in a small packet in my cupboard is quite different from "alive" and growing in a mason jar on my kitchen counter. Growing and fermenting and becoming self-aware, or whatever the hell it does.
Is it going to push open the bedroom door one night and roll all bubbly and gray into the bedroom like something out of "The Blob"? (The good one with James Dean, not the bad one with Kevin Dillon.) And the first thing it's going to find is poor little Abbey, sleeping in her kennel and snoring. Then we'll have a slightly larger, bubbly, gray and furry blob heading for the master bed. Will the boys escape? Who'll raise them? Will they have to move to Washington? Will they get the counseling they need? Is a fresh loaf of sourdough worth all this grief? I need to lie down.
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