Over time, however, I used it less often.
Our kids grew up and moved out; I ceased giving cooking classes. Weeks, even months, went by. Silverton said the starter would keep for a week or two in the refrigerator, but I found that if I fed it just before refrigerating, it could live at least three or four months. A few days of regular feeding brought the starter back to full strength.
I’d almost lost my sourdough starter twice before. Once, I was putting some in a bowl prior to washing its container, which had become crusty around the rim, when the phone rang. When I returned to my task, pouring the excess down the drain and beginning to rinse the container, I realized I hadn’t put any starter in the bowl. There was only about a tablespoon left, but I managed to build it up over a few days.
The other incident happened while taking my daughter, Ashley, to New Zealand to study oenology (wine-making and grape-growing) at Lincoln University in Christchurch. During the month I was gone, we had a new kitchen floor installed. My husband, Peter, cleaned out the refrigerator prior to moving it, then thought he’d thrown out the sourdough starter. “I’ve been putting off telling you – I knew you’d be upset,” he said, finally confessing during a long distance call. He felt so awful that I couldn’t be too upset. Later that day Ashley and I went to a cheese shop. Loaves of bread were for sale; spying a worktable with flour on it, I asked if they were made there. The proprietor said yes; as we talked, I told him about my lost starter. “Would you like some of mine,” he asked. I smuggled it home in my luggage, only to find that whatever it was Peter had thrown out wasn’t sourdough starter; I’d put it in our basement refrigerator.
This time, though, it really seemed like the end. An out-of-town guest had decided to wash dishes while I ran to the store. I’d put the plastic container of starter on the counter next to the sink earlier that morning, intending to feed it. I didn’t have the heart to tell her – she’d just wanted to be helpful.
I’d been proud of having kept my sourdough starter so long. Still, I knew I could make it again. But the wild grapevines were barren: either hot dry weather or birds had gotten the fruit. “I’ll have to wait until next year,” I thought Then, three weeks ago, I told my son, Robb, the sad saga of my sourdough starter during a phone call. “I’ve got some in my fridge,” he said. Suddenly I was hopeful. “But it’s been in there a long time,” he said. “I’ve had it since I lived in Sleepy Hollow.”
My optimism shriveled. Robb lived in Sleepy Hollow, N.Y., before moving to Boston. “I’ve had it at least four or five years,” he said. “I used it a couple times, and haven’t fed it since.”
Now my hope was virtually dead. But why not try? Robb retrieved it from his fridge. “It looks pretty skanky,” he said. “There’s grayish liquid on top, but it smells OK.” I told him that was normal after being stored for a few months. “Mix it together, add a heaping cup of flour and a cup of cool water, and let it sit out overnight,” I told him. “If there are any bubbles in the morning, call me.”
There were. Not many, though. But over the next days, Robb continued to feed it. Ten days later when he drove to Brooklyn, where I’d come once again to see my grandson, the sourdough starter he handed me was as bubbly, alive and deliciously tart as that I’d first made 15 years ago.
My sourdough starter and I are back home in Springfield. By the time you read this, I’ll have made bread with it again. But first, I’m going to put some in the basement refrigerator. Just in case.
As a thank offering, I’ll provide my sourdough starter, along with instructions on care and feeding and a recipe, to IT readers. If you’d like some, email me to schedule a pickup at my daughter Ashley’s stand at the Old State Capitol Farmers Market, Wednesdays and Saturdays through October.
