it dies. A starter left at room temperature needs to be fed a minimum of once a day at a ratio of at least 1:2:2, meaning one part starter, two parts water, and two parts white flour. This ratio is by weight . (Without a scale, approximate one part water to two parts flour by volume .) Many professional bakers recommend keeping a starter at room temperature for at least 30 days.
Home bakers, however, who are not making bread every day or who have busy lives and can’t spend a month remembering to feed a jar of starter every 12 to 24 hours may want to store it in the refrigerator after it matures (again, after about 7 days). Keep the starter in a glass jar or bowl; the container should be no more than half full. While many starters have been revived after long periods of dormancy in the refrigerator, it is best to routinely feed it to prevent diminished performance or accidental death. Once a week is a good guideline. Choose a day of the week—perhaps every Monday?—and remove the jar from the refrigerator. Take 75 grams (⅓ cup) of the starter and place it in a clean, dry jar or bowl. Again begin feeding this starter at a 1:2:2 ratio, so add 150 grams water (⅔ cup) and 150 grams white flour (1⅛ cups). Discard the remaining starter, freeze it, or use in baking. Continue to feed the new jar of starter every 12 hours until it doubles in size—usually two feedings is sufficient. Refrigerate and feed again next week.
Seamus comes to pick up Cecelia and wants to know about all the commotion.
“Liesl’s gonna be on TV,” his daughter says, her sparse eyebrows lifted as high as she can make them go, nearly to the center of her forehead. “For real.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Probably not.”
“I think not,” Tee says from the stove. “She is rooster.”
“Chicken,” Gretchen says.
Tee frowns at the correction. “If you are clever as you think, you do not give her photo to television cooking show.”
“But she made it.”
“A cooking show?” Seamus asks.
“The one we watch, Daddy. The one where the guy goes to different places and tries to beat them.”
“They’re all like that.”
“ Bake-Off ,” Gretchen says.
“You have to do it, Liesl,” Cecelia begs. “Please, please, please? Maybe I can be on TV too.”
The room spins with all the voices and people and the different odors on their breaths. Chocolate milk. Orange Tic Tacs. Something fishy, like tuna salad or perhaps liverwurst. Onions. I can’t find a speck of clean, silent air.
“Okay, everyone out.”
They stop and stare at me.
“I mean it.”
No one speaks. Tee turns off the stove and packs away the food she’s prepared for tomorrow’s lunch. Seamus zips Cecelia’s bag, not stopping to put the crayons back in the box but simply sweeping them into the main pouch with everything else. Gretchen takes a stainless steel bowl from the rack hanging above the dough prep table. “I’ll start the breadsticks, then.”
“Even you, Gretchen. Go.”
“You’re seriously firing me?”
“No. I’ll see you at nine tomorrow.” I rub my hand along my jawline, over a painful nodule close to my ear. A stress pimple already. It hadn’t been there an hour ago. “I just need some alone time now.”
I lock the door behind everyone and open my notebook, listing all the things Gretchen usually takes care of so I won’t forget anything, lest Ginny Moren come looking for her sticky buns in the morning and find none. “Sticky buns? Might as well stick them to my buns!” she says every time she buys her two, shaking the bag near her already ample backside. I flip through to find a few more simple, time-worn recipes and prepare the dough for them too, cheating with the stand mixer when I usually knead by spoon and hand. I’m tired. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to be making bread.
I finish, finally, and go upstairs. Turn on the computer. An e-mailfrom Patrice Olsen waits for me. I ignore it, but navigate over to
Home bakers, however, who are not making bread every day or who have busy lives and can’t spend a month remembering to feed a jar of starter every 12 to 24 hours may want to store it in the refrigerator after it matures (again, after about 7 days). Keep the starter in a glass jar or bowl; the container should be no more than half full. While many starters have been revived after long periods of dormancy in the refrigerator, it is best to routinely feed it to prevent diminished performance or accidental death. Once a week is a good guideline. Choose a day of the week—perhaps every Monday?—and remove the jar from the refrigerator. Take 75 grams (⅓ cup) of the starter and place it in a clean, dry jar or bowl. Again begin feeding this starter at a 1:2:2 ratio, so add 150 grams water (⅔ cup) and 150 grams white flour (1⅛ cups). Discard the remaining starter, freeze it, or use in baking. Continue to feed the new jar of starter every 12 hours until it doubles in size—usually two feedings is sufficient. Refrigerate and feed again next week.
Seamus comes to pick up Cecelia and wants to know about all the commotion.
“Liesl’s gonna be on TV,” his daughter says, her sparse eyebrows lifted as high as she can make them go, nearly to the center of her forehead. “For real.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Probably not.”
“I think not,” Tee says from the stove. “She is rooster.”
“Chicken,” Gretchen says.
Tee frowns at the correction. “If you are clever as you think, you do not give her photo to television cooking show.”
“But she made it.”
“A cooking show?” Seamus asks.
“The one we watch, Daddy. The one where the guy goes to different places and tries to beat them.”
“They’re all like that.”
“ Bake-Off ,” Gretchen says.
“You have to do it, Liesl,” Cecelia begs. “Please, please, please? Maybe I can be on TV too.”
The room spins with all the voices and people and the different odors on their breaths. Chocolate milk. Orange Tic Tacs. Something fishy, like tuna salad or perhaps liverwurst. Onions. I can’t find a speck of clean, silent air.
“Okay, everyone out.”
They stop and stare at me.
“I mean it.”
No one speaks. Tee turns off the stove and packs away the food she’s prepared for tomorrow’s lunch. Seamus zips Cecelia’s bag, not stopping to put the crayons back in the box but simply sweeping them into the main pouch with everything else. Gretchen takes a stainless steel bowl from the rack hanging above the dough prep table. “I’ll start the breadsticks, then.”
“Even you, Gretchen. Go.”
“You’re seriously firing me?”
“No. I’ll see you at nine tomorrow.” I rub my hand along my jawline, over a painful nodule close to my ear. A stress pimple already. It hadn’t been there an hour ago. “I just need some alone time now.”
I lock the door behind everyone and open my notebook, listing all the things Gretchen usually takes care of so I won’t forget anything, lest Ginny Moren come looking for her sticky buns in the morning and find none. “Sticky buns? Might as well stick them to my buns!” she says every time she buys her two, shaking the bag near her already ample backside. I flip through to find a few more simple, time-worn recipes and prepare the dough for them too, cheating with the stand mixer when I usually knead by spoon and hand. I’m tired. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to be making bread.
I finish, finally, and go upstairs. Turn on the computer. An e-mailfrom Patrice Olsen waits for me. I ignore it, but navigate over to
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