Naming it, and the notebook by the flour
Different sort of lesson today. No new technique. Two things that sound small and aren't: naming your starter, and writing things down.
Naming first, since I know it sounds silly.
Herb
Mine's named Herb. It started as a joke — I don't remember who said it first, probably David being a smart aleck about the jar on the counter — and now it's just his name, no irony left. Elsie asks if Herb is hungry. She thinks he's a pet. I've stopped correcting her, because it's not that far off. You feed him. You check on him. He has moods, more or less.
Naming your starter will not make it rise better. It won't. What it does is change how you treat it. A jar of goop on the counter is easy to ignore or resent. A thing with a name gets checked on. That's the whole trick — a small psychological nudge, and it works better than it has any right to.
Name yours or don't. I'm just telling you what worked in my house.
The notebook
Now the part that actually matters: write it down.
Mine lives in a spiral notebook parked right by the flour canister, where I trip over it every time I bake. Not on my phone. The apps exist, people tell me about them, and I still write it in pen — same as my family history records. Same instinct in both places: you keep a record so that later, when something's different, you can look back and see what changed instead of guessing.
Here's what I write after every feed. Takes about thirty seconds:
- Date and time.
- Ratio I fed (I keep mine small, like we talked about — you don't need a huge amount to see what's happening).
- Room temp, roughly. Nothing fancy, just "cold morning" or "warm, ran the oven earlier."
- What it did — did it double? Peak when? Smell sharp, or more like yogurt, or boozy?
- Anything weird. Skin on top. Watery layer. Barely rose. Whatever you notice.
That's it. Not an essay. A trail you're leaving for yourself.
Here's why it matters more than it sounds: your starter won't behave the same in January as in July, or the same this week as the week you brought it home. Once you've got three or four weeks of notes, the patterns show up — it peaks faster on hot days, it sulks after cold tap water. Without the notebook you just have a vague sense that "sometimes it's weird." With it, you know why.
I can't explain the microbiology past the basics. Wild yeast, some bacteria, eating flour, making gas and acid. That's about where my science runs out. What I can tell you is what I've watched happen, over and over, written down — and that's worth more to me than a textbook explanation I couldn't recite anyway.
The part where you don't have to say anything
Let me tell you about Elias for a second. It's related, sideways.
He's fifteen. Mostly on his phone, like most of them are at that age. I wasn't expecting any reaction from him about the bread — he eats what's in front of him and goes back to his room, that's been the arrangement for a couple of years. Then one Saturday I came out to find him at the counter eating most of a loaf, plain, no butter, just tearing pieces off. Didn't say a word. Didn't say it was good. Just kept eating.
I didn't make it weird. Didn't ask him twelve questions or fish for a thank-you. I let him eat the bread. That was the win. You don't always get a review. Sometimes the loaf disappearing is the review.
I bring it up here because it's part of why I keep the notebook — not just the science, but the things worth remembering. Which loaf was in the house the Saturday Elias ate the whole thing without a word. Small stuff. You forget it if you don't write anything down.
Before next time
Get a notebook, even a cheap one, and put it somewhere you'll actually see it — by the flour, by the stove, wherever you already stand. Write down your next two feeds before you come back: date, ratio, what it did. And if you want to name the thing, go ahead. Nobody's judging. I named mine after a joke, and four years on it's just his name.
- J