Робин Слоун - Sourdough

Garrett relished the sourdough most of all. The sounds he made were borderline NSFW.

“You made this?” he said, mouth agape. “Like, from a kit? Does it come frozen?”

Garrett lived in one of the new micro-cube apartment buildings on Sansome Street, and his living space didn’t have any kind of kitchen. Instead, it offered a wall-mounted touch screen connected to various delivery services expedited to sub-five-minute timescales through a contract with the building’s owner. Garrett operated at a level of abstraction from food that made me look like Ina Garten.

I explained the process by which living sourdough starter gave the bread its texture and flavor. Garrett’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “It was … alive,” he said softly. Wonderingly. He, like me, had never before considered where bread came from, or why it looked the way it did. This was us, our time and place: we could wrestle sophisticated robots into submission, but were confounded by the most basic processes of life.

Chef Kate was making the rounds, chatting amiably with her lunchers. Generally, when she did this she avoided our table, reticent to confront the disgustingness of our food preferences. Today, Arjun called out to her—“Chef Kate!”—and she changed her course to approach us, her gaze darkening.

“Lois bakes bread now,” Arjun announced.

“I didn’t think you kids ate solid food,” Kate said.

“That’s only Peter.”

“Correct,” Peter said.

“Well,” Kate said. “Can I try some?”

All gazes swiveled to Garrett, who had just consumed the last slice. He looked guilty but in no way repentant.

Chef Kate hooted. “I never thought I would see the day. One of the Slurry kids baking bread. The rest eating it. Dude .” Her “dude” was a thumping approval. “Lois? Bring me some. I want to taste your wares.”

* * *

THAT NIGHT, when I returned home: a new disaster.

The Clement Street starter had dried out. It was now less a slime and more a crust on the walls of the crock. Its surface was dark and rippled. It smelled like nail polish remover. It looked dead.

In a panic, I threw together a batch of the flour-water starter food. It felt like I ought to drip it in slowly, just a bit at a time, as if I were bottle-feeding an ailing kitten. (I have never bottle-fed an ailing kitten.) (I did once coax Kubrick back to life with a spray bottle.) (You have to work pretty hard to push a cactus to the brink of death.) I dripped, dripped, dripped the floury paste into the crock, and as I did, I spoke to the starter.

“Come on,” I murmured. “It was just one day. You’re supposed to be able to handle that. The bread book said I could leave you alone for a week.”

You must play the music of the Mazg , Chaiman had said. I set his CD to playing on my laptop and tapped a key to increase its volume— plink-plink-plink . As I fed and coddled the starter, it began to perk up. Its color lightened. One tentative bubble formed on its surface.

Relief. But also exasperation: Beoreg and Chaiman had gifted me with a starter that was strange and potent, and also extremely high-maintenance.

I left the starter to recuperate and fished from the cupboard a bottle of pinot noir (purchased for the hedgehog on its label), then retreated into my living room to sit with my eyes closed, sipping. The wine tasted vaguely like dirt. Not in a bad way. When Chaiman’s CD ended, I poured the last of the wine into my glass, then played it again.

The CD’s seven songs were slow and meandering and seemed to fade one into the other. Some were sung by groups of women, others by groups of men, and one was a mixed chorus. The style was all the same: sad, so very sad, but matter-of-factly so. These songs did not blubber. They calmly asserted that life was tragic, but at least there was wine in it.

I realized suddenly that my apartment reeked of bananas. I followed the scent to the kitchen, where the Clement Street starter had more than doubled in volume and was surging out of the crock, puffy tendrils oozing down the green ceramic. I heard a crispy, crackling pock-pock-pock ; the starter was not merely bubbling but frothing.

It is only barely anthropomorphization to say it looked happy.

I could understand that.

I retired to my bedroom, where I kicked off my pants and flopped down onto my futon. I was drunk and tired and happy. More than happy: delighted. Proud of myself—not just for making the bread, but for sharing it, and for making a few friends, even if they were all programmers and Loises. Maybe programmers and Loises are all you need.

* * *

I WAS MIDWAY TO SLEEP when I heard a sound in my apartment—a whispering creak, like the bending of a board. It sounded again, louder. A dose of danger-chemicals flooded into my blood and I snapped wide-awake, eyes sharp, nose flaring.

I think some people call out “Hello?” when they hear strange sounds in the night; this has always seemed foolish to me. If the strange sound does indeed emanate from something fearful, then it already has the drop on you. Better to stay quiet; better to even the odds. I hopped up onto the balls of my feet, crept to the doorframe, slowed my breathing, and stretched my senses to listen.

The sound continued. It was less a creaking and more a high back-of-the-throat sound. Mmm-mmm-mmm. My pulse was throbbing in my neck.

I peeked out into the main room. My eyes flicked from the front door to the back window. Everything was shut tight. This is one virtue of a small domain: you can survey it all at once.

The sound was resolving into something residential, but I still didn’t know what. The wind whistling through a crack somewhere? I relaxed and padded out to investigate.

I followed my ears into the kitchen, where the sound was louder. Up to the countertop; louder still. I zeroed in on the source: the Clement Street starter in its crock.

As I watched, the surface of the starter trembled. It had become smooth and glossy in the moonlight.

It went, Mmm-mmm-mmm .

Even up close, the sound was faint. I leaned my face in, trying to discern its source. Was the crock itself flexing as it cooled in the night? Was the sound coming from a pipe behind the wall? I lifted my hand to move the crock so I could find out if the sound moved with it, and just as my fingers touched the ceramic, the Mmm - mmm - mmm rose and became a coherent note, then two, then more, soft but clear.

The starter was singing.

Its surface was vibrating like a pot just before boiling. This cold-simmering substance was somehow sustaining a quavering harmony.

It was singing in the key of Chaiman’s CD, the key of the choirs of the Mazg.

It crooned into the darkness, then faded.

There was a silence in which I processed the fact that this crock of gray slime had been singing; in which it followed its performance with a tidy farting noise; in which it settled into quiescence; in which I moved first my fingers and then myself away from the crock, across the room, to stand against the far wall.

I wish I could say the moment was hazy or dreamlike, but I was sharp with the battle-readiness familiar to all humans of all eras awoken by strange noises in the night.

I approached the crock again, peered inside, and whispered, “Hello?”

The starter’s surface had lost its shiny tautness. It sang no more.

I considered the possibilities. An accident of gas could, I reasoned, produce a sound—boiling pots bubbled merrily—but it would be plosive. It would go pop , poof , or plop . Possibly boof or bloop . Maybe— maybe — ffft or frap ; a farting sound could be explained. I let my tongue and vocal cords go slack, forced air out of my lungs, and simulated these airy sounds. Boof . Plop .