The Making of a Mother

Sourdough mother, that is.  Since I’ve yet to unearth the kindly, rosy-cheeked soul who will give me some of the sourdough mother that has been passed down in their family for years (I know you’re out there. I know you probably do awesome things like can tomatoes and make jam and use real lard and butter in your pie crust, and once I meet you you will be my idol), I picked up a packet of Goldrush “Old Fashioned San Francisco Style Sourdough Starter,” mixed it with flour and warm water, and left it to sit in a warm corner of my kitchen until four hours pass and it’s time for the initial “feeding.”

This isn’t my first attempt at creating a mother.  The last time I tried it with flour and water and poorly-executed directions from a Julia Child rerun. It languished on the counter a few days, and didn’t do anything it was supposed to do except make cleaning the crusty little bowl a total pain in the rear.

I’m determined to have real results this time, but became a little skeptical when I saw that the Goldrush starter is actually produced by a company in San Jose, which is about 50 miles from San Francisco. “Close but no cigar,” my dad would say. And if this little experiment produces zero bubbles and no yeasty aromas, I’ll get to hear “tough beans, hard cheese.” So fingers crossed.  And to my dear, dear friend out there with a real, years-old, time-proofed starter: I’ll find you someday.  Someday.


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