A little, itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny bit of leaven

Today we call it "sourdough," but for most of mankind's history it was just called "bread." Instead of commercial yeast, sourdough bread uses leaven, which is wild yeast captured from the air and cultivated in a flour and water matrix, called a "starter" (because you use some to start your bread loaf rising). That capturing process can be challenging for those of us surrounded by the thin air one finds at altitude. I began my own starter about ten years ago, following the recipe I found in (I think it was the 7th edition of) The Joy of Cooking. It took another five or so years to grow to the strength that I didn't need to add a yeast booster to get my bread to rise.

Over the years, I've given it to several people who've been able to use it with much success. (Because it's a living, growing thing, starter is the gift that keeps on giving.) One's starter can be a point of pride for the home baker, and it certainly is for me: it represents years of effort and cultivation, and proves a certain level of attainment. So you can imagine my distress (I actually cried out in anguish) when I discovered that Thing 2 had found my starter sitting on the kitchen counter and decided it had to be cleaned along with the supper dishes. The tupperware container in which I kept my starter was in the top rack of the dishwasher, thoroughly rinsed, and my starter had all been flushed down the kitchen drain.

Once I could start thinking again, I looked more closely at the lid. There was a wee little bit of old, gelatinous starter stuck in its rim. Given that I was looking at years before I would be able to cultivate and age a new batch of starter, I decided to take a chance. I was able to scrape out about 1/16th of a teaspoon, which I then mixed with just a teensy bit of flour and water. Frankly, it didn't mix in too well (I could still clearly make out the little lump in the rest of the matrix), so my hopes were low. But the next morning there were a few bubbles in the dough, so I fed it slightly more flour and water. By that evening, I not only had a resurrected starter, it returned from the grave with a richer, even more offensive sour smell so dear to the gluten junkie. 

Ah, the sweet swell of paternal pride.