Starter

I’m a born again sourdough mom.
My peers have influenced me.
And so here I am late at night
blue screen scrolling 
searching the ends 
of the interconnected 
web of WiFi
for crucial tools 
of my new-old trade.

A lame in black walnut, 
no make it two.

A pair of Banneton rattan baskets
with quaint linen liners

An extra large silicone mat 
for kneading and folding

One hundred elasticized bowl covers
(My apologies Mother Earth)
((They arrived))
((They are merely plastic shower caps)))

A silicone scraper 
in jaunty Veueve orange.
A gimmicky but glass, 
so I’ll allow it, 
starter jar with 
a date and time silicone band 
and one of those strip thermometers 
more frequently found 
on entry level fish tanks.

Thus far I have resisted splurging for:
the Challenger bread loaf pan, 
something that looks 
and sounds 
like either Darth Vader 
or a pit barbecue device.

A Staub 3.8 liter cocotte 

A curved lame for baguettes
(because of course 
the two I already bought 
are straight)
((Happy Pride month!))
A counter top proofing box.

But tonight, my collection will add:
A Pullman loaf pan with lid, 
sized for gluten-free loaves.

A pair of texturized 
silicone oven mitts 
in cherry red.
Hopefully red enough
to match the knobs 
of my much imagined 
and much thirsted-for
new range and double oven
the one, perhaps 
not yet ordered
but invoiced in the mind
nonetheless.

While I wait here in bed
At a thirty degree angle 
so the magnesium glycinate 
horse pill I took 
with ample water 
will clear my gullet 
I envision 
all the fresh crusty sourdough
I’ll enjoy from my new hobby.
My new passion.

I await impatiently the act
Of driving my tense fingers i
nto dough 
Until it yields 
under my hands 
like quick sand 
Until my nerves regulate 
into the pace
of my wrists rocking 
and rocking 
and shifting the dough
into a more perfect sphere
(while the sphere I live on
continues to flame 
under Man's un-kindness.)

But for now
I am feed number three
into creating my starter

And the act of discarding 
the majority of the bowl
Still stings, 
eliciting an involuntary grimace
from my anguished face.

The commitment, 
the certainty that it takes
of a human
in these tariff times
To throw throat tightenenly 
(this is now a word) expensive flours 
— all certified gluten free — 
into a sad slurry into the trash.


(Each sling of wet goo 
into the trash
 is about $6.50 
in gluten free grains)

Although
I am way past ready 
for the results,
the act of coddling a starter
reminds me 
of the power of patience.

Of the Art of rest
Of the need for breath work 
Of the value of giving room 
and air 
and time 
to a thing 
that you’re perhaps unsure of 
but you need to believe in 
anyway.

And so perhaps like brisket, 
starting a starter 
is an ultimate act of faith.