I’m going to see Young Frankenstein with a buddy at the Carpenter Center next Saturday. Loved the film, eager to see the play. In honor of Gene Wilder, Mel Brooks, the cast of YF and for fans of Mary Shelley, I can proudly announce
IT IS ALIVE!
On Halloween morning and eve, I was not hopeful about my bread-smelling, feather-non-lifting concoction. I gave the brew a standard Tartine feeding roughly every twelve hours (toss 80%, feed with 130% hydrated rye). By sunup on Dias de la Meurtos, I was ready to call the time on my starter, sign the death certificate and start from scratch. But I was fortunately pressed for time, so I gave it a semi-feed. I tossed 20% and gave it a couple of heaping tablespoons of rye and water (no weight noted).
Returning home after some freeway warriorship and a hectic day at the office, I got the kids set up with dinner, then approached my little Mason jar of horrors. And I’ll be damned if it didn’t show Mama some signs of life. Better yet, we have achieved the sweet, sweet smell of beer. Saturday night will be time for the leaven. Sunday, kids, you and me are gonna bake some damn naturally-leavened, honest-to-goodness, tree-hugging, dirty-hippie-approved, suck-it-artisan-in-five bread.