Carl.
“To Germany?” said Dave.
“Gerta carried it in her suitcase. She was going to take it in her purse, but she didn’t want it to go through the X-ray machine. She was afraid the X rays might kill the enzymes.”
“You took the starter to Germany?” said Dave.
“Last summer we took it to the cottage, but it didn’t do well. We had to feed it commercial flour, and when we brought it back, it was pale … out of sorts.”
“You took it to the cottage?” said Dave.
“It has done three interprovincial trips and two international ones,” said Carl. “Plus a change of planes in Holland.”
Carl explained why he didn’t want to take the starter to Florida. “What if there’s a hurricane?” he said. “What if the power fails? I don’t want to be worrying all the time. It’s supposed to be a vacation.”
Then he told Dave what he wanted him to do. “The starter is in the fridge. In a Mason jar. There’s a bag of wheat flour on the counter beside the fridge. Once a week you put a tablespoon of the flour into the Mason jar. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Dave.
After supper Dave said, “What is starter, anyway?”
Morley looked at her husband and shook her head. She said, “Why did he choose you, of all people? Doesn’t he understand what he is dealing with? The idiot.”
Dave didn’t press the point.
The next day he went to Wong’s Scottish Meat Pies for lunch.
Kenny Wong said, “Making sourdough bread is like making yogurt. You need something to get it going. When you’re making sourdough, you use fermented dough from your last batch of bread. That’s the starter. In the pioneer days, when you couldn’t run to the corner store for a packet of yeast, sharing a starter was a true act of friendship. You should be honored.”
“He didn’t give it to me,” said Dave. “He asked me to look after it.”
“Still,” said Kenny. “If you don’t feed it, it will … you know …”
“No,” said Dave. “What?”
“It’s a living thing. I don’t know. If you don’t feed it, who knows. It might die or something.”
Dave’s first visit to Carl’s house was on Friday. When he got there, he couldn’t find the keys, and he panicked. Had he lost them? He phoned Morley.
“You never had them,” she said. “Remember? Carl was going to leave them under the garbage can.”
Dave let himself into Carl’s house and found the Mason jar of starter in the fridge. He pried the jar open and peered in. The starter looked like moist oatmeal. The pleasing sour aroma of fermenting yeast wafted up out of the jar and made Dave smile. He looked around for the bag of flour. The kitchen was full of ceramic knickknacks. The walls were covered with framed sayings, scrolls, tea towels from Germany and Arizona. The room had the feel of a souvenir shop. There was a set of ceramic containers shaped like dogs on the counter. They were lined up in descending order of size, each dog with a tag around its neck: SUGAR, COOKIES, TEA, COFFEE. The flour wasn’t on the counter where Carl had promised. There was a brown paper bag by the telephone. It was full of white powder. Dave dumped a spoonful into the starter and put the starter back in the fridge. Then he spent half an hour snooping around the Lowbeers’ house.
When Dave got home, Morley was in bed reading. He stood at the end of the bed and got undressed. “All his shirts are ordered by color,” he said as he pulled his sweater over his head. “All the blue ones together, all the white ones.” Dave rolled up the sweater and tossed it toward his bureau like a basketball. It landed in the garbage can. He sighed.
Morley said, “You went through his closet?” She kept reading, but she sounded shocked.
“Of course I did,” said Dave. “He has two pair of lederhosen. Can you imagine Carl in leather shorts?”
He was using his feet to push his clothes into the pile at the bottom of Morley’s closet that served as a laundry hamper.
“I can’t
“To Germany?” said Dave.
“Gerta carried it in her suitcase. She was going to take it in her purse, but she didn’t want it to go through the X-ray machine. She was afraid the X rays might kill the enzymes.”
“You took the starter to Germany?” said Dave.
“Last summer we took it to the cottage, but it didn’t do well. We had to feed it commercial flour, and when we brought it back, it was pale … out of sorts.”
“You took it to the cottage?” said Dave.
“It has done three interprovincial trips and two international ones,” said Carl. “Plus a change of planes in Holland.”
Carl explained why he didn’t want to take the starter to Florida. “What if there’s a hurricane?” he said. “What if the power fails? I don’t want to be worrying all the time. It’s supposed to be a vacation.”
Then he told Dave what he wanted him to do. “The starter is in the fridge. In a Mason jar. There’s a bag of wheat flour on the counter beside the fridge. Once a week you put a tablespoon of the flour into the Mason jar. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Dave.
After supper Dave said, “What is starter, anyway?”
Morley looked at her husband and shook her head. She said, “Why did he choose you, of all people? Doesn’t he understand what he is dealing with? The idiot.”
Dave didn’t press the point.
The next day he went to Wong’s Scottish Meat Pies for lunch.
Kenny Wong said, “Making sourdough bread is like making yogurt. You need something to get it going. When you’re making sourdough, you use fermented dough from your last batch of bread. That’s the starter. In the pioneer days, when you couldn’t run to the corner store for a packet of yeast, sharing a starter was a true act of friendship. You should be honored.”
“He didn’t give it to me,” said Dave. “He asked me to look after it.”
“Still,” said Kenny. “If you don’t feed it, it will … you know …”
“No,” said Dave. “What?”
“It’s a living thing. I don’t know. If you don’t feed it, who knows. It might die or something.”
Dave’s first visit to Carl’s house was on Friday. When he got there, he couldn’t find the keys, and he panicked. Had he lost them? He phoned Morley.
“You never had them,” she said. “Remember? Carl was going to leave them under the garbage can.”
Dave let himself into Carl’s house and found the Mason jar of starter in the fridge. He pried the jar open and peered in. The starter looked like moist oatmeal. The pleasing sour aroma of fermenting yeast wafted up out of the jar and made Dave smile. He looked around for the bag of flour. The kitchen was full of ceramic knickknacks. The walls were covered with framed sayings, scrolls, tea towels from Germany and Arizona. The room had the feel of a souvenir shop. There was a set of ceramic containers shaped like dogs on the counter. They were lined up in descending order of size, each dog with a tag around its neck: SUGAR, COOKIES, TEA, COFFEE. The flour wasn’t on the counter where Carl had promised. There was a brown paper bag by the telephone. It was full of white powder. Dave dumped a spoonful into the starter and put the starter back in the fridge. Then he spent half an hour snooping around the Lowbeers’ house.
When Dave got home, Morley was in bed reading. He stood at the end of the bed and got undressed. “All his shirts are ordered by color,” he said as he pulled his sweater over his head. “All the blue ones together, all the white ones.” Dave rolled up the sweater and tossed it toward his bureau like a basketball. It landed in the garbage can. He sighed.
Morley said, “You went through his closet?” She kept reading, but she sounded shocked.
“Of course I did,” said Dave. “He has two pair of lederhosen. Can you imagine Carl in leather shorts?”
He was using his feet to push his clothes into the pile at the bottom of Morley’s closet that served as a laundry hamper.
“I can’t
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