Thank You for Being a Starter!

I think sourdough is taking over my life.

For years, I tried sourdough off and on and failed miserably. I made one series of what could only be described as doorstops after another. Dense little bricks that technically contained flour, water, and starter, but calling them bread felt like a very generous compliment.

Then earlier this spring, a really good friend gave me some of her sourdough starter.

I nurtured it. I fed it. I talked nicely to it.

And somehow, against all historical evidence suggesting otherwise, I started making some pretty decent bread.

Then summer arrived in North Texas, and we began living on the surface of the sun.

There was absolutely no way I was voluntarily heating my oven to 450 degrees when the outdoors was already doing a perfectly adequate job of trying to bake us alive.

So into the refrigerator went the starter.

And there she sat.

For months. And months.

Two weeks ago, I finally dug her back out. I wasn't entirely sure she would revive after being neglected in the back of the refrigerator all summer.

Boy, howdy, did she come back to life.

She bubbled. She grew. She doubled. She practically climbed out of the jar looking for something to do.

At this point, it became obvious that she needed a name.

So I named her Blanche, after Blanche Devereaux from The Golden Girls.

Being a GenXer raised, like any good Southerner, on The Golden Girls, there really was only one choice. Because, as we all know, Blanche could get a rise out of any man. Wink!

It seemed only appropriate that my sourdough starter share her name.

Unfortunately, Blanche has now become a little too enthusiastic about her job. Not unlike a certain Golden Girl we all know so well.

In the span of one week, I have made two regular loaves of sourdough, both stunning and beautiful, if I do say so myself. Then came a loaf of jalapeño cheddar sourdough, which was also delicious, but I completely forgot to take pictures of it.

And because Blanche apparently has no intention of slowing down, tonight I made 26 sourdough English muffins.

Twenty-six.

TWENTY-SIX.

Y'all.

I am one banneton basket away from accidentally opening a cottage bakery.

Blanche just won't quit.

Every time I turn around, she's bubbling and growing and demanding to be fed. And then I have discard that needs to be used, or active starter that's ready to bake, and suddenly I'm standing in my kitchen at 8 at night making English muffins like I've been commissioned to supply breakfast for a small village.

I thought I was reviving a sourdough starter.

Apparently, I was awakening a South Florida lifestyle.

Blanche keeps doing what Blanche does best.

Which means, apparently, so do I.

I preheat the oven.