I’ve had some pasta madre bequeathed to me a number of times. Each time from a different friend, but they were all from people with whom a trusted relationship developed first — so much so that to share the starter was emblematic of our friendship. As in, we had to get to the point in our friendship where we confided and delighted in each other’s food shenanigans, which included failures like the burnt, the rotten, and the woefully unsalvageable before we could talk ferments. Sharing fermentation starters was like sharing our insides.
Friendships might be hard to keep, but sourdough is harder. As I write this, I’m holed up in a writing cave to produce the first drafts of my dissertation, and the isolation ushers in pensive moments.
“Ferments are fun to have in the moment, but maintaining them requires an entirely different sense of self. Maintenance is not just a lean-back task; maintenance means being in service of others, perpetually and perpetually self-renewing this service, without demanding anything more in return.”
I’m noticing a strange pattern emerge when I reflect on my three most recent starters: it seems that my friendships have staled. While it pales me to think about how I might have inadvertently caused my extra-microbial (that is, human) relations to sour, I also think herein lies the difficult work of fermentation. Ferments are fun to have in the moment, but maintaining them requires an entirely different sense of self. Maintenance is not just a lean-back task; maintenance means being in service of others, perpetually and perpetually self-renewing this service, without demanding anything more in return. It is a kind of selflessness that, ironically and indirectly, nourishes our-selves.
Stale relations, stale ingredients. 2019.
2012 - I first meet “N” through university coursework, as we navigate chemistry labs and patient files while both of us work full-time. She is my first friend outside of work, one that I hesitate to pursue out of the fear that academic competition might sabotage our relationship. One summer, I help her move into her apartment, and she invites me over for pancakes to show her appreciation. I don’t realize they are sourdough pancakes until well into my third or fourth serving, each smeared with more peanut butter and drenched in more maple syrup than the previous ones. I gush unabashedly at her pancakes and playfully demand that I learn her recipe. When I move into a new apartment of my own, she gifts me part of her starter, Sachmo, along with half an index-card with feeding instructions on one side and ratios for pancake ingredients on the other. I make pancakes with Sachmo, not anything else, because its memory is saturated in sweet recollections of weekend brunches and breakfasts banter that sustained my full-time schedule. Years later, N abruptly and mysteriously disappears from my life, leaving me to question — on many fronts — how I ought to keep going. I haven’t made sourdough pancakes since.
2014 - I continue on in my food studies and I learn that “F” is the token baker of the class. She hails from a region known for their bread, and she brings an entire boule to class wrapped in a tea towel. It is still warm. She catches me ogling the bread and beams me a smile. It is a smile of recognition. She confirms: “You like bread?” I tease back, “Who doesn’t?” As an international student, I don’t speak the local language, so I ask F where I might find yeast — or, more precisely, I inquire how to ask for yeast because I’d heard a rumor that one can only obtain yeast from the pharmacy… She scoffs, “Oh I’ll just give you some of mine” and hands me a jar of pasta madre the next day. Enamored, but also in a slight panic, I beg her to teach me how to knead bread, precisely because all bread recipes insist on the vague directive to knead “until the dough pushes back,” whatever that means. Her private lesson sets me on a baking path — one that I still practice today — which brings us closer together for the remainder of our program. Though we stay in touch over the following years through short-earnest emails that declare our love for each other and all things bread, we remain an ocean apart. F comes to visit me in Montreal last year (or was it the year before?) and I can barely recall what we did together because I was mentally vacant from overworking myself. I also cannot remember what I did with her starter, and I shudder at the thought of having washed it down the drain.
2016 - I arrive in Montreal only knowing two people. “D” becomes an invaluable resource for me, helping me get my footing in this chaotic city. (His was the phone number I listed when I requested my IKEA purchase to be delivered to my new home, because I hadn’t signed up for a phone plan before ordering a mattress.) During my first half year in Montreal, we frequently dine out, often on his dime because I am a doctoral student with a measly funding package. He also brings me jarred gifts every time we meet. First some pickles, then some fermented seasonings, and, by the holiday season, I receive some Christmas cake and hard sauce to go with it. So, asking for a portion of his starter becomes part of my natural rhythm for establishing my own means of culinary production. I know his starter’s name is Gigi, I know the story of how Gigi-the-person is no longer of this world, and, as a result, I know the added gravity of what it means to keep Gigi alive in both food and memory. Last summer, after moving house, I notice that Gigi is covered in a black feathery mold. The truth is, even before the move, I knew that Gigi was struggling beneath the ropy confines of Kahm yeast. I still haven’t told D about what happened to the Gigi he shared with me. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him in more than half a year.
“We are beholden to others for our own survival and wellbeing. It makes plainly clear that care for oneself and care for others can be one and the same, like when we seek to feed those around us or freshen up the ambient environment.
This also makes the converse true: Failing to renew the momentum of interest means preventing any further relationship from flourishing.”
Starters like pasta madre serve as constant reminders that we are beholden to others for our own survival and wellbeing. It makes plainly clear that care for oneself and care for others can be one and the same, like when we seek to feed those around us or freshen up the ambient environment. This also makes the converse true: Failing to renew the momentum of interest means preventing any further relationship from flourishing. We might be left clueless on what happened on the other side, and the sudden loss may prevent us from partaking in sense memories from that time — like making pancakes. We might be so caught up in our own headspaces that we fail to be present in the flesh with those who nourish us with simple joys — like bread. We might be so focused on work and our own productivity that we fail to see how isolated we make ourselves in the process — even letting opportunistic molds take over in our emotional paralysis. Three failed starters and an air of staleness have made me realize that I’ve put myself in a sticky mire. It seems that I've been calculating my needs before others, to the point where I’ve come to expect that others will always be there only in times of my dire circumstances.
Yet, relationships are central to our communal thriving, and I cannot continue to isolate myself from what tethers me socially. It’s time, then, for a refresh. No more cycles of sharing, complacency, passive guilt, and then abandoning at the first signs of rot or inaction; it’s time for embracing the fact that all relationships are prone to rot if we let it. And the only way to not let that happen is to consider others’ needs as part of our own, convivial reality.
A fragrant boule to gather the masses. 2017.
Epilogue: I wrote this piece during the doldrums of academic writing, which can be a harrowing and isolating experience. I’ve since reconnected with both D and F, to much delight, on accord of happenings both personal (with D) and professional (with F). I called upon D when I wasn’t feeling safe in my own home, trusting him with my 2am call and quivering voice. F trusted me as an expert voice for her own writings, reminding me that we can absolutely call on each other as colleagues from the same alumni network. In both instances, I was reminded how powerfully the frequent caretaking of folks in and through food keep these relations rich with possibility. They’re not dormant; they’re latent. How easy it was to attune to each other and proverbially pick up where we’d left off. And how I look forward to maintaining these ties and remain tethered to all that nourishes me whole.
Maya Hey is a researcher, foodmaker, and educator, combining her backgrounds in the arts and sciences to investigate ways that engage the everyday eater. She is a PhD candidate in Communication Studies at Concordia University (Canada).