The Legacy of Sourdough
Your sourdough starter is still in the fridge, a year and nearly four months later. The same one that fed the round, sweet-tangy loaves you made weekly, scored on the top to perfection. I remember the intoxicating smell wafting through the house while it baked, inviting me into the kitchen. Like an excited child I’d ask, “Is it ready yet?”
You, always so patient, waited for it to cool just enough. I loved to make that first cut into the crusty shell to reveal the soft, steaming sour-sweetness inside. I’d watch the butter melt with anticipation on the flaky flesh, just before taking a delightful bite. Oh, how I miss that bread!
I still feed the starter diligently every week, a ritual that keeps me close to you. Somehow, it feels that I keep you alive in the bubbling dough. It is fully alive. In all honesty, though, I almost killed it once, having neglected my duties in the devastation of grief. Frantic, I prayed over the sourdough starter as I fed it faithfully. I made offerings to the bread gods. I even added a small portion I found in the freezer. You kept it there for just this occasion, I’m sure. Gratefully, it lived somehow, fully revived. I scarcely could stand the possibility of its demise.
I’m reminded of my great-great-grandfather LaBabera. He was the bread maker like you. He owned the brick oven in a small northern Sicilian village. Like the brick oven you built in our backyard. The community would bring their dough daily for baking. I imagine the beautiful, warm, tangy smell rising in the square, announcing sweet life to the villagers as they woke. Home, like you.
I understand that a sourdough starter can be used an infinite number of times—the legacy of life extended into future generations. I try my best to keep extending that life, imperfectly, in the warm, nurturing memory of you. Yet, I have never made bread. Maybe it is time to try.
From The Marvelous Contentment of Belonging: Poetry, Prose and Prompts for Navigating Grief by Darci Meyers**
