My Dirty Little Bread Secret

I’m quietly baking bread over here. Sourdough, of course.

I am quite proud that I only posted one picture of it that expired after 24 hours, leaving no trace. I only took the photo to draw attention to my problem: how can I make it more sour? My cousin in Seattle and college roommate in Los Angeles and the head of my rival house at Hogwarts obliged. Now my bread is more sour.

But why am I, a person who shares extensively without reservation, hiding my new hobby?

I am prone to dietary trends, easily convinced of the best new thing and I don’t like to admit it. I blend MCT oil into my morning coffee and I’m not entirely sure why. I sprinkle nutritional yeast into everything from popcorn to stew without really knowing what vitamin B does for me. Back in the day I ate oat bran muffins for my heart and non-fat yogurt for my waist and drank gallons of Dr. Pepper because it was fat-free and the sugar and prune juice was so much better than aspartame, which was in my gelatinous yogurt. Most recently, I brewed my own kombucha (and may start again) and I used to make very creamy almond milk.

I would rather you didn’t know all of this.

I prefer the narrative that I am an independently-minded individual, a stalwart eater, a cook who mainly eats like my foremothers, a knower-of-what-is-good instead of a trier-of-what-is-marketed-to-me.

But, I am loving making bread. For a while I wasn’t sure what it was all about, but I am learning something. Bread making is about developing a little habit, a practice. It isn’t the big investment and then the splash of a birthday cake that never gets eaten all the way. It isn’t the family performance of spending a harried day, moments before Christmas, making lefsa with a special ricer and a special rolling pin to be cooked on a special grill.

It isn’t like dirty floors or my book or the laundry. These three beg for my attention and yet can be ignored for weeks. They tolerate my neglect and need me to give a whole afternoon to them.

Sourdough requires me to circle back often and yet it is easily satisfied. It’s a little glass dish festering on my counter. It is witchcraft: one day I added 2 parts flour and 1 part water and a day later I let go of half of it and added some more of the stuff I put in before. I kept doing this simple thing over and over until it was no longer a bland mush, but a tangy thing that expands to twice its size overnight. Three minutes a day make this magic.

Many things I do require coordination: Ramona, are you done with the dryer? Can you take your clothes upstairs then? Who’s sweatshirt is this? Are all of your dirty underwear in the hamper? You do have clean pants, you just haven’t put them away. The laundry is a streamlined process compared to the orchestration that is teaching.

The sourdough is all mine. No one else is involved, yet it requires the wisdom of ancestors. It rises in the bowl my Grandma Marie used to rise her dough. I pour over online instructions, looking for answers: what to do with the discard? Do I really need to invest in a spray bottle? Which rye flour should I try? But like most good things in life, the instructions are never enough--each recipe is the same but different. Figuring bread out requires a degree of wisdom and experience, a do-able amount of each. The wisdom of other good things--friendship, family, and writing a memoir--take so much longer. Sourdough isn’t instant gratification, but it doesn’t require the commitment of a marriage. You can’t rush it, but it isn’t needy.

Maybe most importantly, this thing on my counter gives back. It satisfies even when it is too dense or bland. Bread fresh out of the oven is always warm and crusty and butter fixes its every fault.

I want to do things more like I am doing sourdough. My cooking has been leaning this direction for years--I make and eat simple things that don’t wear me out. I want to live this way. Instead of burning hot and then out, I want to do little things that build up to something that satisfies, something that gets better as I draw on the collective wisdom of the world. Something that requires me to read and ask and listen and to do something, a little something each day.

It's Okay to Throw Out the Schedule

I don’t really know how to write about just one thing when a whole bunch of things are going on, but I am going to try to do it anyway: I don’t think teachers or parents or students need to worry about schedules and learning objectives and keeping pace.

This is a stressful time and I give you permission to let it all go. If it’s not working, let it go. I get it. For many people, children and adults, structure liberates. Making a daily learning and activity plan, posting it, and abiding by it is working. So by all means, go for it. Do what works.

 In fact, as a teacher, it is my job to guide families in this new endeavour of working together in harmony while being trapped at home against our wishes. And I look forward to engaging curious children and building community. This is important work. I hope to soon “meetup” with my math groups each day. I miss them.

 But making sure Opal is a fluent reader (or at least knows 1000 sight words by the end of first grade) and Zola has facility with fractions and decimals? By the end of this lock-in? Not my priority. Spending 2 hours on specific, prescribed academic tasks? If they want... 

It isn’t going to be easy on the frontlines--at kitchen counters and on bedroom floors. Learning at home will mean sharing devices and lots of technology troubleshooting. At our house suddenly our phones and ipads are always about to die and all of the chargers are missing. No school start time means my children stay up later and wake up later. And, of course, they need a snack every minute of the day.

But experience has taught me that sometimes how we school our children stops working. So we change schools or homeschool or transfer to a better-fit teacher or drop a class. We advocate. We flex. And so if what your school has on offer is not working, it is okay to take a break and reboot. Call in sick. Take a mental health day. Listen to your children. Follow their lead.

If a kid does a little reading (or is read to or listens to an audiobook) and plays some sort of game and moves a little, that kid is winning. That kid is learning. If you just do one of those things, you’re totally punk and I bet your kid chops their own vegetables and can dress themselves with flare. It is ok to email your dedicated teacher and tell them you will be doing “this, but not that” or “none of it at all” for a bit. They’ll probably get it.

Phil reminds me that we’re kind of far out there as far as this is concerned. We are also very privileged. We’ve never been too worried about coverage or the cannon or days of school missed. Our son went to college without a high school diploma, but nearly enough credits for a minor in philosophy. He’s an art major who would like to be a preschool assistant teacher when he finishes. My daughter graduated a year early and (gasp) didn’t complete a college prep program and yet has been accepted to six great colleges anyway. Guess what? She doesn’t even know her state capitols and she’s still not sure she wants to go to college. And that’s ok.

So, if you need it, I give you permission to let go of the relentless push to get something accomplished. Kids will learn anyway.

 I love y’all.