Of Friends and Fermentation

I’m sorry to tell you this way, Annabel, but your sourdough starter….didn’t make it.

I was full of enthusiasm when I first begged it off you and carried it back across London, cradling the precious jamjar of yeastiness in my arms.

I fed it frequently, made sourdough bread.  It bubbled appreciatively.

Then Christmas loomed and I got busy.  You’d told me that I could slow it down by putting it in the fridge. That’s what I did.

Then directly after Christmas the trip to my mother-in-law in Northumberland. Then a New Year’s get-together, then a wonderful and unexpected trip to Lisbon with Pascoe.  It took me a week more to remove the jar from the fridge and check – in my heart I already knew I was a murderer.

But now I have a second chance.

In a caf in Truro, Jen presented me with a ginger beer starter.  Taped to the jar was a lengthy set of instructions, blurry from where the starter had leaked.

“How lovely.  I didn’t expect this.  But. Er. I have an eight hour train journey home tomorrow….”

“Just keep loosening the top every so often to burp it.  Then it definitely won’t explode.”

On the train, I texted her:

“So far, so good.”

Her reply:

“Go froth and multiply.”