So this is what happened.
Every year my littlest sister has a Christmas Eve Eve party. And it’s wonderfully great fun because we all get to see one another again and still get home to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day at home. If you’ve not tried it, try it.
Anyway. This Christmas Eve Eve arrived with frigid winds blowing out of the north, freezing everything and causing widespread power outages. (Why Canada can’t keep it’s weather to itself is beyond me and probably should be addressed) My littlest sister’s new home was one of many affected with darkness and arctic cold so we moved the party to her son and daughter-in-law’s new house.
After we arrived and thawed out, I learned that my nephew had taught himself to bake bread the hard way, with sourdough starter. As we talked he told me about the process and offered to give me some of his starter the next day if I was interested and we were staying in the area. But, at the time, I wasn’t and we weren’t.
However.
The next morning as I drove us home in the dark and LoLa and Miss Carol slept, I found myself thinking about it. The bread had been delicious and I thought how cool it would be to be able to make bread out of just flour and water so I decided I’d like to give it a try. I texted my nephew and he graciously sent me a beautiful book called Tartine Bread.
*cue the darkly obsessive music*
I like to think that all things begin innocently enough and my journey into the sourdough wormhole was no different. I read the book and I started a starter and I nurtured it and thought that after a week it was good enough to bake a loaf.
*klaxon buzzer*
And it was awful. So I tried again.
*klaxon buzzer*
And again.
*klaxon buzzer*
And that’s when the real trouble began. I started reading other recipes, other blogs, anything and everything about sourdough bread and starter. I scoured YouTube videos for hints and help in my now burgeoning obsession.
And I finally prevailed. I baked a loaf.
But.
I also realized that I’d accidentally caused an unintentional effect, that I’d triggered something sleeping dormant in me. I stared in horror as my sourdough obsession seeped into other aspects of my life.
Like- making sure that the bills in my wallet are all facing the same way and in ascending order
Like- not being able to wear a blue shirt because it’s Wednesday
Like- needing my socks to be paired together and arranged in order of purchase date.
I’m not sure where it will end.
Miss Carol smiles wanly and tries to support me, but I can tell that she secretly wishes we’d never gone to this year’s Christmas Eve Eve party.
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