The London Ferment

After the velvet quiet of Whidbey Island, the slate grey bustle of London was disorienting. Gone were the mist-wrapped mountains and luxuriant forests to be replaced by swarming masses, labyrinth-like streets, and a steady drizzle from leaden clouds.

On the whole I was delighting by the change: To hear ten languages in the space of ten yards, to have a myriad cuisines and cafes on my doorstep, and to have the prospect of this whole marvelous metropolis to explore was heady stuff to a island girl.  And yet the whole rhythm of life is so different from the one I left behind that the shock of change left me bemused and somewhat dizzy. So it is for solace as much as for substance that I have returned to bread making. There is nothing like the gentle, measured making of a sourdough to sooth a case of culture shock.

Before leaving the US, I did toy with the idea of bringing my painstakingly nurtured starter to England, but eventually decided customs might not approve . . . . They don’t specifically bar sourdough starters, but then again, perhaps the issue doesn’t arise often enough to appear on their website’s list of prohibited items?  Alas, I suspect that the horrendous air quality on the plane would have killed the poor little yeasts anyway.

So I had to start from scratch. Yet again. Strangely, its only been a couple days since I began the new starter, but it seems incredibly lively already! Perhaps London yeasts are, like Londoners themselves, a more frantic, hurried bunch? Or is the crucial difference in the flour? The rye I bought looks similar enough, though a little coarser ground. Nevertheless, all that matters it the bubbly and wonderfully putrid smell—all good qualities in a young starter.