Sourdough, I’m breaking up with you.
It’s not you, it’s me. Actually, who am I kidding? It’s you. You’re the worst. At this point, sourdough, you have left me crying alone in my kitchen one too many late nights, my sweatpants caked in flour, and I can’t justify putting myself through the agony any longer.
For some of your other paramours, I know that the agony led to ecstasy. I understand that those relationships didn’t come easy, that they had their failed loaves too, that they probably shed a few tears at some point. But then they had their breakthroughs. And now they’re one-upping each other with Instagram posts of their crumbs, trading tips on producing the most dramatic ear, flexing on Twitter about their hydration percentages.
I’m not saying I’m blameless. Maybe I could have been the person you needed me to be if I just cultivated a little more patience. If I carved out a little more time. If I bought the right kind of banneton and a $30 lamé. If I downloaded the Calm app. If I were only a different, better, imperturbable person.
But I’m not a better person, and sourdough, you can’t change me. Do you know what this relationship reminds me of? The climbing ropes in elementary school gym class. Do you remember the ropes? Of course you don’t. The ropes were the worst — daunting, impossible, liable to burn the skin off your hands. When I’m with you, I’m brought back to the sickening sensation of watching my classmates make their way upward and wondering what was wrong with me that I couldn’t do something that seemed to come so easily to everyone else.
It wasn’t all so bad. There were the salad days, the early months of quarantine. We were so full of hope. We thought this would all be over by summer. Bored, at home, looking for a way to pass the time, I met you on the internet. You looked like you were exactly my type. It seemed like we shared a lot of interests: living in San Francisco, leaf-shaped art, cheese. And even though our first few dates were disappointing, I sensed that the relationship had promise. There was always the next weekend.
Back then, even when flour was being rationed, I was committed to feeding your mother every day. (Boy, can she eat!) I read every article I could find about how to get along with you, even though they all contradicted each other. I bought all that special equipment you seem to be so persnickety about. I special-ordered high-protein, heirloom-grain flours from Illinois, despite the fact that the shipping cost more than the products.
Did any of that make you happy? No. You still came out of the oven leaden and dense, refusing to rise. At first I forgave you. It was my fault.
Then quarantine took a turn. Time lost all shape, everything got worse, and one morning when I woke up early to tend to your starter, I walked into the kitchen and your tangy aroma, which I used to love, just smelled rotten. Suddenly I stepped back and asked myself, What am I still doing in this relationship? You seemed less like a balm for my homebound boredom than like a sad reminder of all the pointless things I’ve been doing to distract myself.
Look, I wasn’t perfect. I didn’t want you to find out this way, but I have to come clean: I baked bread with yeast back in May. Only once, I swear. OK, a couple of times. And you know what, sourdough? It was great. That yeasted bread respected my time. It was so easy to get along with. The conversation just flowed. And I went to sleep that night without feeling consumed by guilt and failure.
I tried, sourdough, I really tried. You’re better off without me. There are so many other eligible bakers in San Francisco who would be lucky to have you. Who already own the $30 lamés. Who monitor their kitchen humidity much more closely than I will ever be willing to. Who don’t mind feeding your mother a full cup of flour every single day. I wish you nothing but the best. Let’s face it, even factoring in the flour from Illinois, you were still cheaper than a puppy.
And someday, when I run into you at a party, or a sandwich shop, I think we’ll exchange some knowing glances, remembering these times we had together during the strange spring of 2020, when anything seemed possible.
Esther Mobley is The San Francisco Chronicle’s wine critic. Email: emobley@sfchronicle.com Twitter: @Esther_mobley Instagram: @esthermob
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July 22, 2020 at 11:40PM
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I'm breaking up with sourdough bread baking - San Francisco Chronicle
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