Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Siberian Sourdough Bread

It doesn't matter one little bit that I seldom post here any more, because I have been baking my own sourdough bread.

The sourdough starter, a token of thanks, borne in Tupperware on Aeroflot to Ireland by Dame Ada Lamb and her companion on their last Grand Tour of Europe, is fresh from the Gulags or Steppes of Siberia; I forget which they said exactly.

It is centuries old.

The French, with their finer sensibilities, appreciate that sort of posturing. The phone rang and it was Canal Levain++ asking me whether I would appear on their panel discussion on over-sized jugs and whether to hang curtains across the washing-machine alcove.

At first I said No, as I say No to everything, but then I asked myself, "What would Samuel Beckett have said?", and I said Yes.  We aesthetes must stick together.

So all these months have been stamped with the knead and rise and bake of the sourdough bread to the beat of the warming world. And now great fame.

I will have to turn off the comments here. It has been so long since I commented over at your blog; certainly for no less love of you and your fabulous flowers and slipcovers but rather through languor and, ultimately, moral turpitude.

Not commenting makes me feel guilt-stricken and nervy. I am prone to that.
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