Feeling Maternal Over My Sourdough Baby

Photo by Monika Grabkowska on Unsplash

I've never wanted kids. Even when mini-me, all dressed in pink, would play with dolls and barbies, there wasn't a single time this evoked any sort of maternal feelings in me. I did not fantasise about eventually making one of those beautiful, innocent girls. I rather wanted to be a beautiful, innocent girl (society cultivating women's sense of inadequacy since childhood yay!) Whereas some of my friends couldn't wait to grow up and get children as they dressed their dolls in outfits designed to perpetuate the gender conformity they would criticise later on in life, all I wanted was to have those outfits myself. Perhaps not a great alternative but you choose your fighter.

You can imagine how shockingly surprised I was when I entered my baking phase during this quarantine and started to deeply care for my little sourdough starter baby. I've loved to see it grow with each daily feeding (I mean, it literally grows bigger because I gradually add more flour and water to it) and see it ferment naturally, creating more life as it ages. Sometimes I check in on it to see if it's too cold in my poorly insulated flat. I pick it up and carry it in my arms as I bring it to the living room with me where I have put the heating on. Even this morning, when I basked in the perfectly sunlit spot on my couch, I occasionally glanced over to it and thought "Are you feeling this too?"

My sourdough starter baby is due in a couple of days. To avoid complications, I've appointed a good friend of mine sourdough starter GP. He's the ultimate hippie friend I truly believe everyone should have in their life if they decide to start giving back to mother earth through gardening or baking, and need some reassurance along the way. My usual questions range from asking about the right water temperature to how loose the lid on my jar should be to prevent it from exploding. One particular night I panicked as it looked like the dough had separated from the water, and I was almost sure this was the end. I blamed myself for being a terrible sourdough mother. It would be too painful to just start all over again after this failure. I had killed my sourdough baby. When I sent my friend a picture of the crime scene though, he calmly explained to me that everything was fine and that I just needed to give it a good stir. It was probably time for a new feeding too, he observed. My baby's been doing great ever since.

I doubt my maternal feelings will ever go beyond bread making. It's just so incredibly rewarding to know that something I have given life to will not drain my bank account for twenty years but actually give back to me in the form of carbs. What more would you want to ask for? I feed it, and it feeds me. It's a simple and fair exchange. There'll be no sleepless nights, it literally sustains itself on flour and water, and in a week, I won't even have to feed it daily anymore to keep it alive. I can completely neglect it in my fridge for weeks and bake bread with it when I want to. You can't do that with real babies.

I understand it might seem a little cannibalistic to eat your own creation, but then again, that's what it was literally made for. If it could speak, I'm sure it would say something along the lines of "Knead my body! Bake my skin in the oven until I get crusty on the outside but warm and fluffy on the inside! Let me nurture you and your friends with my flesh!"

Too graphic? Well, maybe my maternal feelings aren't that motherly after all and I'm just hungry. Better pre-heat the oven to find out!