If you haven’t read ‘Where do Yeast Babies Come From?’ yet you should probably read that first.
My wife has surrounded herself with other crunchy wives, some of which are of her own creation (fault?) while others she has simply collected unto herself. Regardless of their origin story, the result is that there is this almost symbiotic exchange of information that occurs between them, altogether forming a larger living creature that excretes a more intense crunchiness than any one of them could achieve on their own.
Like a crunchy feedback loop.
They all pass things around between them: one catches it and then passes it to another, and another, and pretty soon they’ve all come down with the latest crunchy symptoms.
My wife is a vector for crunchiness.
Lately, there’s been a renewed yeast infection among the women my wife hangs out with.
That sounds gross, let’s go with ‘sour dough culture outbreak’.
Anyway, if you remember way, way back, towards the beginning of this blog, I wrote about my wife’s early entry into the whole ‘living foods‘ thing: culturing, brewing, fermenting, etc., and particularly how we gained this Yeast Baby, and then (SPOILER!) lost it, sadly, and then (SPOILER!) got a new one. And which my wife used to make (SPOILER!) sough dough bread.
Well now we have a NEW yeast baby. I’m not sure if it’s at all related to our own original yeast baby…I think probably not. I’m pretty sure that family line was cut off.
By our negligence.
AUTHOR’S NOTE – The picture above is an actual parent (or grandparent?) of our New Yeast Baby. Scary, right?
Anyway, somehow one wife we know was super into it, and then she got another wife super into it, and on it goes until finally I find myself carrying a little bag of goop in a Ziplock from one wife to another, neither of which were even MY wife. It’s like my wife is pimping me out as a for-hire drug mule.
I do have a lot of experience.
Anyway, somehow this all boomerangs back to us and we’re into yeast culturing again. A husband is tasked with handing me a jar of goop in the parking lot of a church where our kids are in Scouts together. He shrugs as he hands it to me, absolving himself of all knowledge of what is in the jar and/or what is to be done/implied by the transfer of said life-form.
I shrug as I receive it, take it to my car, and attempt to lodge it into my cup holder. It barely fits.
Why do these things always happen in parking lots?
Later that same night:
WIFE: (holding little mason jar) “Hm…we’re going to need a bigger jar for this little guy.”
ME: (passively glancing at said jar of goop) “Hm.”
Then with horror I note that next to the larger jar of goop there is an EVEN MUCH LARGER JAR next to the first larger jar (now to be referred to only as ‘medium-sized jar’) that is also possessing some of its very own goop.
I am not ‘amaze at a math’ but I could tell that there was going to be some kind of exponential-multiplicity-growth thingy happening. I’ve seen the maths on that, it’s bad.
Taking over the house bad:
That movie scared the crap out of me when I was a kid. Later as a teen, I thought I would conquer my fears when I noted that the TV listings in the paper said that The Blob movie was playing:
Not the same movie.
I ended up doubling down on the trauma, so you can understand my fears about an out-of-control growth factor inside of our home. At this rate, we would all die in a sweaty mass of delicious sourdough bread batter.
I confronted my wife about this reality but she indicated that she had a ‘plan’ to ‘contain’ the growth of our culture by keeping a significant portion of it ‘cold’ in the ‘fridge’. This apparently made it stop growing so fast.
A week or so has past, so far we’re still here so it seems her plan has worked, for now. Also we are eating some pretty tasty sourdough bread products…I like sourdough bread, so I’m willing to tolerate all of this for now.
But seriously, this can’t last, she’ll go soggy on this eventually.
Those little jars are so needy.
NEXT WEEK, ON THE CRUNCHY DUNGEON: