Programming note: I had to take the last week off in sending a newsletter since I was moving last week. We’ll resume sauce theory next week since I’m dedicating this week’s issue to an absolute legend.
Fran Sourdough Starter (April 2016 — March 2022)
Yitgadal veyitkadash shmay rabba.
Is it sacrilegious to say Mourner’s Kaddish for a sourdough starter?
Is hamotzi more appropriate?
Either way, it is with great sadness that I write to inform you that my 6-year-old starter (or “Fran,” as she was known to her closest friends) is no longer with us.
I had left her in the refrigerator in my empty apartment in Washington, D.C., thinking she would be able to last since it would only be a matter of days before we could reunite. But days turned to weeks and weeks turned into a whole month. By the time I was allowed to move into the new place, she was all dried up. The lid on her jar had popped off – perhaps from a last gasp of carbonation before her untimely demise.
Fran was born in my old apartment at 3585 13th Street NW. Inspired by a New York Times article about “America’s Rising Pet,” I decided to raise a starter of my own. She was a trendsetter, ahead of her time. Way before the rest of the country was discovering the allure of sourdough baking in March 2020, Fran was transforming herself into boules, bagels, banana bread, challah, pita, English muffins, waffles, even croissants over a winter break when I was feeling particularly ambitious.
Fran was also a mother and grandmother to two other cultures. Even though she didn’t get to travel as much as she wanted, her byproducts have circumnavigated the globe – slices of bread and rolls accompanying me on trips to Tokyo, Paris, London, Iceland and throughout the U.S. I eat a lot of peanut butter sandwiches.
I’ll remember her for her bubbly personality and ability to get a rise out of nearly any grain she came in contact with. Fran was a cultured lady with a deep appreciation for darker loaves, particularly whole wheat or rye varieties.
After I settled in over the weekend, I dug through my belongings to find my scale and flour and mixed together a new starter. She’s named Fran Two, or Twoey for short. Hopefully she’ll be vivacious just like her foremother.
Part of me thinks Fran didn’t last long enough to live in her new home for a reason. The process of moving and waiting to close on my condo was chaotic and frustrating. Perhaps making a new starter is a way to make a new start in a new home, a sort of sage stick to cleanse out the bad vibes and usher in fresh bacterial life. Only time – spent waiting for loaves to prove – will tell.
Amen.
May her memory be a blessing 🍞
Absolutely priceless. So sorry for your loss. Here's to new beginnings...