Day 65: Sourdough Lovin'

I've got a sourdough starter in my fridge and it's taking up half of the first shelf. This is quite significant, so let me explain. I'm not so good at schedule or promptness. I forget all kinds of things from birthdays to deadlines to menial tasks like watering plants. I live in a house of dried flowers, not because I particularly love potpourri, but because I'm so scattered and forgetful. Behind me there's a neat pile of Christmas gifts waiting to be mailed. And it's almost February. So it's a bit miraculous that this sourdough starter is alive and fermenting. For three months now, I weekly bring it to room temperature and feed it a bit of bread flour and warm water. The bubbly sour smell spreads throughout the kitchen and I peer into the over sized glass mixing bowl and marvel that what looks likes spoiled milk can add flavor and texture to a loaf of bread. And it does. I've just pulled a pair of loaves from the oven and I can heard their quiet crackle as they cool and set. I want to tear open a chunk, like communion Sunday, and sit in the quiet and taste the bread.

And love, of course, is just like sourdough. You have to wait it out. You have to let it sit. Love is like sourdough because when you feed it right it grows stronger with time. Not minutes. Not days. Love and sourdough need patient caretakers. People of faithfulness and integrity who will not skimp on nutrients. Spouses who will measure with care the flour and water and will wait for the bubbles before sealing and storing for another week. But most of all, love and sourdough need a partner who knows that something that appears to all the world to be spoiled, is actually the most precious concoction of all.

I want to be a sourdough wife. The kind who is marked by faithfulness. The kind who waits. The kind who sees her husband as the precious one he is.