Marilyn Smith

On vacation since Christmas Eve, I’ve spent more than my usual amount of time in the kitchen. The truth is that I seldom spend any time in the kitchen. Since Stan retired, he’s done 95% of the cooking, dishwashing, and shelf-stocking and organizing. Some of the things we own, I haven’t seen for years.

But I took on a project a week ago: making sourdough starter from scratch. (You may laugh now.) How many times have I tried this before and failed miserably? I’ve tried dried just-add-water packets, from-scratch recipes from cookbooks and magazines, and was given live starter from a more domestic friend. OK, it’s only yeast, but I’ve felt bad when each and every one of the batches died.

This one got off to a messy beginning, a matter of using the right-sized container and covering the top loosely. By the second day, I’d switched to a container that is working well and by Day 4, I was no longer scraping bubbly, crusted goo from the loose towel. Today is Day 6; tomorrow, I bake.

Building the starter or nurturing it or whatever the process is called has required kitchen time every day for seven days, usually coinciding with feeding Radler and Selma. They know that magic time simply as Food.

Food and Starter is followed by dishwashing. I’ve volunteered to do all the dishes since I’ve been home, so that’s meant a lot of time at the sink, looking out at the heartbreak of our back yard. Yes, most yards look miserable this time of year, but sometimes, it’s just too much.

After yesterday’s Game, hearing Freida’s latest tall tale, then a family discussion of whether it’s more important to pay your bills or go to Disneyland, I ended up again at the sink. I believe a person makes his or her own happiness. The sun was sort of out. I grabbed my gardening gloves, some clippers, and a basket.

In the back, I cleared away dead chives and they were nasty. Flat, slimy, pale. Yuck. But underneath? Half-inch shoots of a new crop. The oregano was next — last year’s tough dried old stalks chopped down to fresh green ones underneath. A black, dead fall mum showed small green leaves near the roots. And in the salsa garden barrel, I cleared away tomatoes and Italian parsley and found two Walla Walla sweet onions with bright green tops about six inches tall.

Three more containers of mums in the front yard have eensy green leaves at the base, too.  Don’t know about the formerly gorgeous pink daisies in front of the garage; they became Daisies of Christmas Past during the big freeze in early December and may be complete goners. But I’ll settle for what we’ve got.

The mountain cabin smells comforting and yeasty and green springs eternal from last year’s garden. I’ll take that for starters. Happy new year after all.

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