Lover as I am of most things culinary, it’s no surprise that when my coworker-friend Brecca arrived at the office with bags of Amish Bread Starter, I clapped with glee. “Yay, homemade bread!” …I cheered internally, and gratefully accepted my goo-filled Ziploc bag of culinary potential. Like a starry-eyed expectant mother, I drove home, dreaming up strong Amish names for my beloved bag of joy.
And then I read the instructions:
Day 1: Do nothing
Day 2: Mash the bag
Day 3: Mash the bag
Day 4: Wait for it…mash the bag.
Day 5: Yep…mash the bag.
Day 6: Feeding time! Add 1 cup flour, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup milk
Day 7: Back to just mashing.
Day 8: All I do is mash.
Day 9: Have I mentioned that I don’t even like the word mash?
Day 10: The Blessed Event! Make bread and bread starter babies!
After reading those instructions, I experienced what I imagine most newborn parents must after their 87th midnight feeding…a little buyer’s remorse. I hadn’t received a gift—I had inherited a curse! You see, the Amish, having no opportunity to hassle the world with e-mail chain letters, got clever and stuck it to us old-school style…with the gift of obligation and responsibility! Damn the clever, vengeful Amish!
So, when I was packing to visit my folks last weekend, guess who came along? Amos, the Amish Bread Starter. Guess who required a “mash” at least once a day? Amos. My sister brought her puppy, Maddox. Who did David and I bring? My Amish Bread Baby. It’s quite possibly the single most gay thing I have ever done. I practically had the little guy in a Baby Bjorn.
But all my bread-sitting is soon to pay off. Today is my last day of mashing! Tomorrow, my little Gizmo makes baby gremlins! So let me know if you’d like little bundle of joy for yourself. It’s like kinda like having a baby…except you can eat it.
This is no joke…I really do have three bread starters to give away. First three to ask get the “prize.” 😉