Last weekend, my family met a friend (it was Leah!) for a romp through the woods where her parents live. We had a wonderful time, and before I knew it, I was holding sourdough starter from her mother in my hands. The starter and its accompanying recipe came from Brother Max, whose mother lives in those same woods. Brother Max is a monk in Virginia, where he is responsible for making bread for his monastery. I was delighted to know my bread came from a monk.
I am late to the pandemic sourdough party but arrived with bells on. I’ve been baking like a fiend and made four loaves this week. I enjoy tending food and feeding others, so bread making is well suited to my temperament. It also tempts my lifelong struggle with perfectionism, since there are a million ways to make it better at all times, but that’s another story.
My first loaves made everyone in my household happy, especially John, who at one point whispered “holy hell,” and Herbie, my canine sidekick, who refused to leave the bread’s side from the moment it came out of the oven. Their happiness made me happy. Happiness, like sourdough starter, multiplies.
I discovered all I’ve been missing by only keeping Ezekiel Bread in the house, including Korean street food John casually whipped up for lunch one day. It is best described as an egg sandwich on not-sweet french toast. It is excellent. Of course there was avocado toast — we are millennials, after all — and I will take this opportunity to suggest that any avocado toast in your future be drizzled with olive oil, chili flakes, salt, and pepper.
I don’t have a dutch oven, which is widely heralded for its contributions to bread making at home, since it mimics whatever controlled environment real bakers use. But my goal is “low-key sourdough,” despite my natural tendency to make things, ahem, not low-key, so I enjoyed problem solving with what I have. I baked sourdough on baking sheets and created steam domes with roasting pans, one of which was the four-dollar aluminum kind. Steam helps bread rise and creates that delicious and much-sought-after “shatter crust,” so I put ice cubes in with the bread to make more.
Over the course of four days, I watched my dough; talked to it; took its temperature; stretched it; and moved it around till it looked content. In the first batch, I left everything to chance, and in the second I decided that letting the starter and bread rise in the microwave seemed to help. I fiddled and tweaked, once attempting an autolyse and once skipping it completely.
Bread baking took time away from everything else I planned to do this week, but that was okay. It felt like an opportunity to surrender to the process and be part of something not entirely in my control. I was collaborating. With bread dough. And weather. And all the bakers who have gone before me.
I learned that bread making is an exercise in paying attention. It’s a dedicated process of nurturing something that will in turn, nurture others. It’s grounding.
We are experiencing a dark time in this country. Though we’re going on with our lives however we can, there’s a strong dissonance when we stop to consider that 3,000 people are dying every day. That is more loss each day than we experienced with Pearl Harbor or 9/11, and a projected total that will be unnervingly close to the 650,000 lost in the Civil War.
Yes, vaccine news is promising. But this winter will be long.
Many people are living with fear. Some are scared of losing jobs. Others are afraid they’ll have to close their precious businesses. Some are anxious about what will happen next politically. Many are fearful that with 3,000 projected deaths per day till February, this virus might finally touch their family.
We have all explored coexisting with fear this year, whether we wanted to or not. Even though we know it’s important to tend our own gardens and cultivate joy, it’s deeply unsettling to see so many Americans forging ahead with their lives and holiday plans as if our nation isn’t suffering such loss. It’s infuriating that we haven’t seen a relief bill. It’s disheartening that empathy is considered a radical political stance. It’s unsettling that this crisis increased the wealth gap.
Put simply, my question is this: When did we, as a group, become so callous?
I wrote a big, serious, heavy piece on overcoming fear to share with you today, but this is my last column of the year, and when I asked myself what I wanted to leave you with at the end of 2020 — this dear community who has been so generous, attentive, and willing to meet me here each week, no matter what we’re facing — it was not a big, serious, heavy piece on fear.
I considered what I would do if I could gather with you in person. And the truth is this: I would hug you. I would try to leave you feeling better than when you arrived. I would feed you. There would be bread.
So here we are, and I hope that by bringing you into my kitchen, in a sense, you find something closer to the care I would like to offer you at my table.
That’s the thing about bread. It illustrates the way that nourishing ourselves leads to nourishing others. Friends across the country reached out this week to help me with bread making. Bread brings people together and creates connection, even when we have to be apart.
Flour, salt, water, and air.
That’s all it takes to make bread. It’s honestly a miracle.
My wish is that everyone in our nation — the sick, dying, broke, fearful, callous, and lighthearted — all experience a touch of the miraculous this season.
Between you and me—
Though I can’t believe it, it’s time for my annual holiday break! This space will be quiet for the next three weeks, at which point I’ll return excited to open the door and face, along with you, whatever 2021 may bring.
This community has been life-giving for me this year, so I want to thank you for being part of it. I don’t take anyone’s time or attention for granted, especially these days, and your participation and generosity has meant so much.
When you’re writing for the internet, you’re supposed to choose titles that make people want to click, and I’m not good at that. Last week, for example, I could’ve done better. So if you missed it, we discussed inviting all your struggles in for tea. Yes. For tea!
Three pieces I loved: a moving story of a small business, insight on why people take risks during a pandemic, and an ode to Dolly.
Following up on a theme from last week, I want to conclude this year with a list: My guardian angel dog, my deeply supportive husband, your openness to my work, your financial support, a community interested in reimagining the world and creating new economies for artists, a group of people that wants to ask big questions and make meaning out of whatever we’re given. This pleases me.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. To support this newsletter and make more of this work possible, you can become a sponsor, click the heart, share online, or forward to a friend. It all helps!