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There's a new culture war fermenting in a kitchen near you; mine was the site of the first casualty. I killed my starter mix.

It should have been simple. Everyone said it was easy. People have been doing it forever.

Simple. Easy. Everyone. Forever.

But I killed it.

The kid certainly made it look easy. She even talked to it, coaxing it into new growth as if it was some toddler learning to walk. And it smelled better than most toddlers learning to walk. It even bubbled a bit as it came alive.

But I did it in.

Not right away, you understand. I gave it a chance to double in size and thicken up and fight back - all those tough-love techniques that should have had that blob from the back of the fridge rising to the challenge of new life.

Nope.

Dead.

In the post-mortem inquiry, conducted by text message over great distances, (Sure, leave town just when I do my first solo) it was suggested (always go for the passive when guilt is imminent) that my attempt to hurry the process along by warming it on the stovetop was probably what done it dirt.

So, I started over. This business of bringing things to life is a positively religious experience, and those little yeast spores just wanna have fun.

Wakey, wakey, Starter Mix. You will flour again. Or, I will flour you again - lots of it this time. And we'll let the gently rising room temperature create the ambient atmosphere for love. It's like a good romantic encounter with a slow warmup instead of the fiery flareout.

And it worked. After a night of coddling under cover, the dough was bursting its britches or whatever, and I smacked it about got it shaped up and after a three-hour rest, I baked it.

Lookee here. Not those ones; they're for throwing at squirrels. 

Over there.

Oh, and the important thing is this: you get to eat the result. While it's still warm. With butter. Lots of butter.

And then you get to do it all over again. Like sex, if I remember. Without the butter.