That I did it was damnable in itself. That I did it to an old friend who had worked so hard for me over the years was an unforgivable sin.
Yet it happened and now I can no more retrieve the past than I can deny my guilt.
I'm talking, of course, about my trusted sourdough starter, which had served me for close to 10 years. It had enhanced so much that I had attempted, from beautiful boules to some of the most flavorful pizza crusts ever created.
And I killed it. Not overtly, but through neglect. I had come close to losing my old friend once before, but it rallied and regained its old vigor. I swore I would never neglect it again.
I lied.
It sat too long in my refrigerator, probably hidden behind some forgotten leftover that sprouted its own special bacterial menagerie. It sat without nourishment or a refreshing dose of fresh air. Not only did old sourdough's vigor fade, but this time it developed a dangerous looking pink caste. In the end I had no choice but to discard this old friend.
Now I begin the search for a replacement. Well, I actually began a couple of times without much luck. But beginning tomorrow the effort gets serious.
I will keep you posted.
