I Have a New Boss

Hi friends,

First, I would like to formally apologize to all men for referring to my illness last week as a man-cold.

I am now fairly convinced I had COVID or it’s evil twin sister.

Apparently, that still exists.

You may also remember several references last week to being a doughball and asking God to help me rise. That’s because over the past month I have gone head over dough for sourdough.

I got my starter for free from Moxie Bakery. They hand you a couple of tablespoons in a tiny plastic condiment cup, which I can only assume is their way of saying, “Sure. Go make your own bread.”

Excellent sales strategy, really.

Here. Have some fermented flour. Spend $200 figuring out what the hell to do with it, or come back tomorrow and buy our perfect $15 loaf.

But I will overcome this, goddammit.

The problem with sourdough is that it needs to be fed every day. Which means I have once again acquired something that needs me.

I quit my job, and a jar of flour became my boss.

I think I’m going to name her Mother Superior.

Unfortunately, this isn’t my first time doing something like this.

Ten years ago I became a beekeeper. I bought hundreds of dollars in equipment, joined a beekeeping association and went hunting for wild swarms with complete strangers.

Eventually all my bees died or left because, as it turns out, I was a terrible beekeeper.

Then I became Kombucha Sheila. That ended when my husband banned kombucha from our home because the giant living SCOBY floating on our counter was frightening the children.

There were also granola and homemade yogurt phases. The yogurt phase ended when I became lactose intolerant, which feels like my body staging an intervention.

And now: bread.

Except my family doesn’t actually eat that much bread.

So naturally, while recovering from the mystery virus, I made six dozen sourdough discard cookies in one night.

We froze the dough and put it in the garage freezer, where hobbies and frozen sale items go to die.

My family is already over sourdough. I’m going through flour at a rate that suggests we’re preparing for the Oregon Trail, and my Amazon cart is full of sourdough equipment I have so far managed not to buy because apparently quitting your job also means your disposable income goes down.

Nobody talks about that part of funemployment.

I’m still figuring out what it feels like to have value when I’m not bringing home a paycheck or being needed by people at work.

So perhaps it makes perfect sense that I came home and immediately found some flour that requires my attention every single day.

Or maybe I just like sourdough.

Hard to say.

Either way, Mother Superior needs to be fed.

— Sheila