Morning Rituals - an Ode to Starter and Bread
Wading deeper into spring, my mornings begin earlier and earlier. The sun has started to rise at 6, and her brilliant gaze coaxes me from my dreams before my 7 am alarm gets the chance. I usually wake up tucked between multiple creatures - my husband, Samuel, to my left, our Luna pup curled tightly into my right side, and sometimes Dakota or Fawkes will be nested in my legs.
Most mornings - not all, but most - we spend our first conscious hour staying in bed. Samuel will pull me against him - one arm under my head, the other curled around my waist, the stubble on his chin will irritate my neck, and the dogs will shuffle on and off the bed until they land on their most comfortable option. Some days we talk and laugh, other days we just lay quietly pressed against each other until our breath begins to sync.
Eventually, we grow far too restless to continue hibernating in bed, so we rise. I gather up my laptop and phone, throw on my slippers and an oversized sweater, and head for the bedroom door. Fawkes and Dakota eagerly emerge with bright eyes and an excited pant. Luna, however, remains on the bed, not getting up, but never taking her icy blue eyes off me. Smiling at the predictable energy emanating from the boys, I turn the knob and, as they say, “release the hounds”.
All three stampede through the hall and down the stairs, their clackety paws hit the hardwood floors in a chaotic shuffle and slide. Somehow, they never seem to understand their lack of traction on slick flooring and gallop the length of the house until their loss of control brings them sliding into a wall.
Some days our fur babes want breakfast first, other days they demand to go outside for their morning potty break before even glancing at their bowls - we oblige either whim. After they’re taken care of, the battle of wills begins between me and Samuel. The loser makes the lattes.
It’s the same song and dance every morning, which I don’t totally understand since the results are always the same: I’ll insist he’s better at steaming the milk and whine (in what I think is an endearing manner, but he finds it obnoxious) until he finally gives in and makes us both oat milk lattes. Mine is served in whichever mug he pulls out of the cabinet, and his is served with a pinch of honey syrup and in the same less-aesthetically-pleasing black thermos. Why he insists on using a thermos is a bit of a head scratcher, because he downs his latte in less than five minutes, so he wouldn’t lose heat if he were to use a mug… but whatever, pick your battles I guess.
While Samuel wrestles the espresso machine, I pull on my far-from-clean pinafore apron, and prepare the morning ritual that I’ve started to cherish above all the others. To the right of my sink, on a surface that’s perpetually dusted in flour, I get to work. Armed with my bench scraper, I brace it’s sleek edge against the top of my counter, and like a winter plow bursting through fresh snow, I scrape any flour remains from the previous day out of my workspace. After settling my wine colored scale on top of the freshly cleared surface, I pull out 3 different flours, fill a cup with warm water, and roll up my sleeves.
Cordelia and Lil’ Sebastian, my two starter babies, are hungry and ready for a fresh grainy feast. Quickly discarding, I give them each their share of water and adjust their flour accordingly. Cordelia prefers a diet with some rye flour, and Lil’ Sebastian refuses to eat anything other than red fife. Using my hand, I mix them both thoroughly, letting their thick gluey mass ooze between my fingers. I finish by tidying up the sides of their jars, and carrying them back to their corner of the kitchen.
My days don’t always have dough or bread, but they always have Cordelia and Lil’ Sebastian. Some mornings I prep them for dough by keeping them warm and cozy and letting them have an elevensies snack. Other mornings, I have pre-shaped loaves sitting in the refrigerator waiting to debut.
Whether I’m just feeding my starters, or making dough, or baking crusty bread, there’s always an hour or two of down time between tasks. In that time I record notes and observations from my new adventures in starter and bread, and continue to read and research this incredible process that has given me a new sense of purpose and rewarded me with the simple pleasure of homemade bread - a joy I can’t imagine living without now that I’ve tasted it.
