I have a friend who bakes bread. It always looks beautiful. Sometimes she brings it to her office or gives it to her friends. I don’t really care too much about being able to make bread for myself, but I do enjoy the idea of making it for others. Partly because I like to give gifts and what not, but more likely because baking for others is seen as generous, selfless, and worthy of praise. And I like praise. I asked my friend if she’d send me some starter and she said she would gladly. I missed out on the sourdough craze during Covid and did absolutely no research of my own. The package of starter arrived when I was away for the weekend. I opened it a few days after its arrival to NYC from LA and read through the “How To Guide” my friend had lovingly put together. Apparently, my starter would be “sleepy” because of the trip. I suddenly was terrified at the fact it had been sitting dormant in a box for several days. The panic only grew when I realized this guy needed to be fed on a regular schedule. I saw the list of bread related tools I needed to buy and grew wary still. I have a knack for only making it to the “buying supplies” stage of a hobby.

The poor starter was fed neither at a consistent time nor on a consistent basis. I developed a genuine anxiety over if I would/could ever provide what it needed and if I’d ever have an open enough weekend to go through the proofing stages required to bake the bread. My poor roommate was subject to bubbling jars of sourdough and yogurt containers full of discard. I couldn’t even extend bread as a peace offering for the floured counters and pungent smell as she’s gluten free. I was determined to make it through at least one loaf attempt, but between my frequent sleepovers at my boyfriend’s place, weekend trips, and my general depressed nature, I found it increasingly unlikely I could provide the starter the consistent nurturing required for it to reach a ready-to-bake state.

I can be nurturing, but I’m not a good nurturer. I can provide care and encouragement. I feel genuine joy in doing so, from time to time. But I am fundamentally incapable of consistent devotion to anything or anyone. In some ways, nurturing is a synonym for practice. It is a dedication to attending to something again and again and again. While I will often complain about being unintelligent or untalented, I am actually far more haunted by the real truth, which is that I am good enough to be great with some consistency. Unfortunately, I have probably formed anxious attachments with everything I’ve ever done. Showing fervent passion one day and despondency the next. I know I lack discipline and I know discipline is the backbone of progress of any kind. But I also lack want, lack care. I don’t want to do things. I want to want to do things.

The other week I got a bone marrow biopsy. I also got drinks with a friend. Both just felt like things I had to get through, one not remarkably worse or better than the other. Once a person who never let a text go un-replied to, I now watch the faces of my most cherished people stack up in my messages, only replying when the guilt is greater than my apathy. Knowing that if I knew it wouldn’t hurt their feelings, I could probably never respond again and feel nothing. Even if I once found it much easier to maintain relationships, at least digitally, I don’t think I’ve ever felt natural about it. I feel like I’m “performing friendship” most of the time. Well I guess I feel like I’m performing most of the time.

Exercise, eating well, friendships, hobbies, projects, goals, these are things that require you to show up again and again. I can’t even keep a fucking bacteria colony alive.

I get a call from my mom, she is wondering where to retire. She tells me how she doesn’t feel like she knows where she belongs. She isn’t happy. Maybe she will be in Temecula, or maybe back to the east coast, or wherever I think I’ll end up. I want to cry because I know it doesn’t matter. She has all the drive I lack. She is a woman who does. She is a woman who follows through. She is not a happy woman. We are not a family of happy women.

Halfway through the first paragraph of this blog post, I googled how long a starter could go without feeding before it truly died. One site said that starter is quite resilient and usually can be brought out of its hibernation with a few generous feeds in quick succession. She said the only time you should consider your starter dead is when there’s visible mold accompanied by pink and orange hues. Inspired by the starter’s yeasty tenacity, I got up to resurrect my own. I pulled out my flour, my food scale, and a new, clean container to mark a new beginning. As I pried open the crusty lid from the mason jar that hosted the starter, my brief burst of enthusiasm was dampened by the sight of mold and a pinky orange film. The disappointment then turned to relief. I’m free! I thought as I tossed the whole jar, the discard container along with it.

I sent a confessional/apology text to the starter’s mother- the friend in L.A. She of course was understanding because why would she not be. And still, I felt as if I had yet again gotten away with giving up. I am not a failure, not a success, but a far more upsetting third thing, where I will never achieve, innovate, or conquer, but I also won’t flounder so obviously that it warrants repercussion, intervention, or help.