Sourdough Starters
We first met a quarter century ago, Judy and I, but really got close when our respective marriages ended a decade or so back. We were both still in France then and connected around getting our kids through the ensuing heat with ferocious lashings of sticky, mommy-love and delicate, adolescent dancing. This involved Judy and I going for many talking-walks in the forests with our King Charles spaniels, another thing we had in common. Along with France, food, North American roots, working with ‘the French,’ and a shared passion for seriously good bread.
It was with a very particular sense of gratitude that we got together this Thanksgiving weekend in America, with now-grown kids and second husbands in tow. (Sadly, the dogs have all departed heavenwards). It was natural that I would bring along the tools to bake bread, along with a healthy dose of the sourdough starter that lives in my fridge, no matter where I live. It feels a bit like the last pet I have to feed and take care of, now that my beloved mutt is gone, and the kids are feeding themselves. And natural that Judy and I should share these bugs, as we have shared so many other chemical reactions over these years.
How far we’ve come! We both left long time lives in France (me to the UK, her back to the US). We both spent time at Harvard (her as faculty, me as Fellow). I’ve written a few books and remarried, she’s had a stint running part of a university and moving into VC. My kids have graduated college and moved into work and other lands, hers are moving on to graduate school. And here we were all sitting around a table full of turkey taking turns sharing our thanks. It’s as obvious as it is mind-bogglingly astonishing. After so many worries, stresses, sibling rivalries and sleepless nights, here were a group of eloquent, intelligent adults sharing their gratitude – of family, of us, of being together breaking bread. We laughed and shook our heads in wonder. Peace, bread and plenitude.
Baking bread is a ritual that keeps me tethered in time and taste. Every three days, it starts again, in an endless series of crackling brown loaves. As simple as it is viral, as delicious as it is daily. Passing on the secret of the simplicity of bread-baking to Judy and her boys, is like gifting a sweet smelling Madeleine-memory of France. Redolent with days spent en famille downing Pain Poilane spread with butter crusty with sea salt crystals and Bonne Maman jam.
I’m reading a book by Sara Lawrence Lightfoot called Growing Each Other Up: When Our Children Become Our Teachers. She interviews dozens of parents about what they have learned from their children. It’s a wonderful celebration of one of the best-kept secrets of parenting. Your kids don’t become what you preach or teach – they become (or react to) who you are. So if you are ready to watch and listen carefully, they become a giant mirror of your values and your actions and those of the community around – a summary statement of your life and times. From which you can learn – if you dare. For some, this is a hard lesson, for others a confirmation of a job well done. At our Thanksgiving table, we had a moment of what Lawrence Lightfoot describes one mother feeling about her son:
“Gabe has, in essence, taught his mother how the values she professes – and has professed in their many conversations around the dinner table, listening to music together, knitting side by side, watching documentaries – have embedded themselves in his everyday encounters and choices. “It is not just theoretical… you spend years breeding that in him… then you see it lived by him in a way you could not have predicted, and that feels so good.”
You never stop learning. With adult children, you experience the world through multiple sets of eyes, further multiplied when they marry, and again when they have kids. For me, it’s a constant, ongoing course. How this country or that company treats its young, its women, its mission. What the latest apps can do, what it’s like being single in New York, what gender means and doesn’t, what racism and colonialism did to Africa, what really happened in Hong Kong. My kids are like a sprinkling of rye flour, feeding new bugs into the starter dough.
For me, baking bread wasn’t a pandemic thing, as it was for many (there was a time early on in the pandemic when you couldn’t buy bread flour at any price). It started when I moved to London and discovered that bread worth eating wasn’t part of the cultural landscape. At least not on my side of the river. Not after Konditor, the little bakery next door, decided to give up making bread to focus exclusively on the higher margin business of making cake. So if you can’t find good bread, it’s time to make it yourself.
Here's the drill. Day 1, you feed your baby/starter and let it rise, starting off the chemical reactions that make life explode and bubble with excitement. You add flour, water and salt to get a pleasing little globe, that you tuck in the fridge overnight. Day 2, it’s a bit like midlife, full of ups and downs. You let the dough rise, then you fold it down to size. Then again, up and down, like most lives. Finally, a happy, puffy, self-important ball gets tucked into its ‘proving’ basket for a final night in the cold. Day 3, you preheat your oven as hot as it will go and plump your loaf into a scalding pot in a hell of an oven. When it emerges from the heat, it is a sight to behold. A rounded gift of mature nature and life, fragrant and literally crackling with yeasty charms.
That’s what Judy and I feel like these days. Out of the fire, and lovingly appreciated for our crusty selves. The kids are going to be OK.
One day, may they bake their own bread.
