Every morning I wake up, turn on the light, make some dark coffee, and feed my sourdough starter.
If you want magic. If you want to see the light or hear the whisper of the gods, find it in the ritual. The repetitive actions of a sleepy oaf. They portend and reveal just like the tea leaves at the bottom of a cup.
For better, for worse, but always toward happiness. According to the Dalai Lama, the meaning of life is happiness. The tricky part is finding it.
We started this series talking about Dante, who in his search for God, realizes that he must first go down before he can go up; and that it is always darkest before the dawn. It has felt that way in our community and in our hearts.
The end of one year and the beginning of another make for an auspicious time to reflect.
The feeding schedule for my sourdough starter ranges anywhere from once to twice daily. I am supposed to use a 1:5:5 ratio of old starter to water and flour, but it usually ends up with “let’s see how it goes today.” I’m not always scientifically accurate when it comes to my bread baking, which is enough to send any experienced baker off the deep end.
Baking is science. Temperature, measurements, accuracy. All of the things necessary to achieving consistent results. Eh. Not so much for me. I prefer to wing it. It’s the rebel in me.
I spend so much time following the rules otherwise, this is my way of saying, let’s see what happens. If you haven’t used sourdough to bake your bread, you should. At least once.
I prefer using sourdough to yeast because if gives me a greater connection to the process.
The strict schedule of folding, slapping and letting your dough rest somehow provides greater satisfaction to the perfection of Fleischmann’s.
Plus, you get the added benefit of flavor beyond belief. Try it. You won’t be disappointed.
But if you asked me how many times I actually baked bread over the last year, you’d be surprised to learn, I could probably count the number on one hand. Yes, really.
That’s a lot of work every single day for a few slices of warm, crackly, deliciously salty (I throw in a little more than the recipes call for) bread with butter and my favorite jelly.
I’m the luckiest guy on earth because I have a steady stream of mora or capulin jellies come my way from the beautiful women in this valley.
That’s a plug, so keep’em coming, ladies! Why do I do it, you ask? Why all that work for the off chance that it may turn to bread?
I keep the sourdough alive because it’s my thing. It’s my ritual. But more importantly, it represents the meaning of life. A chance at happiness.
I feed the starter of my life for the off chance that it might turn into something someday. Something great. Something out of this world. An opportunity. A spark. That one laugh. That one smile. It’s why we persevere.
The journey of our lives is long and hard enough. But it doesn’t have to be. It can be simple and beautiful.
Whether considering Odysseus in the Odyssey, Dante in the Inferno or you in the first few chapters of your own book, we are all searching for that ever-evasive thing we call the meaning of life.
We are all in the act of becoming. And if our city or state or politics are representative of who we are, then our community also is on its way. Give it a chance. Be kind to it. Give it the air it needs to breathe.
Feeding your sourdough starter takes discipline and repetition. The ritual of helping your community takes practice too. It requires nurturing and constant vigilance.
But the chance for something beautiful makes all of the work worth it. Happiness cannot be found in a bubble.
It must be sought and fulfilled in the people you call your vecinos.
The gente and familia you love. It’s not all doom and gloom. And in the words of one of my favorite artists, LP, “It only feels like darkness till somebody turns on the light.”
This is a new year. A new beginning. Turn on the light and feed your starter. It’s time to get baking.