I made my weekly sourdough with a little lemon zest (you add inclusions during the second or third of four stretch and folds). My sourdough is a two-day process, with an overnight final rise.
This one turned out well, nice rise, good ear and fresh bread smell.
If I were more outgoing, and popular, I’d have more of an outlet for my bakes. I can’t keep stuffing my poor husband and our friends Christina and Dominic every week.
I keep meaning to brave the quizzical looks and cold rejection of strangers in my neighborhood by going door to door, sourdough in hand. One day, I will.
Right now, it’s going to our friends again. Hope they enjoy it.
I think about quitting. But then, I dream about the impending doom of all civilization, and I keep at it, even when I’m tired of doing stupid meaningless menial bullshit day in and day out for nothing but those blank, cow stares.
Maybe if I get a Taylor Swift type to hold a bake sale now and then, but nah…
That’s about it for this week, other than the voicemail I received Saturday telling me to “kill yourself, kill yourself,” after an introductory, “dog eater, dog eater, cat, cat, cat.”
Her lazy, curling drawl sounded vaguely familiar…
And this strange man wanting to DM me on Instagram.
They do know I’m not Kristin Cavallari with my tits and ass, right?