Lena, having a snack at the counter after school, asked me what my favorite possession was. I mentally sifted through my stuff. I don’t really think of myself as a “thing” person. I rely on my computer. My noise-cancelling headphones are like a parachute: although I hardly ever use them, they offer me the reassurance that I can escape in an emergency. But favorite thing?
“I love the fountain pen my sister gave me,” I said, then noticed Adam and added, “and my wedding ring.” Not true: I love my husband and my marriage. The ring is more a symbol of things beloved than a beloved thing itself.
Later, at the same counter, the kids were eating what we call a “French picnic”: in our house that means a sourdough baguette, a cheese or three, salami or ham, and some kind of fruit. They eat that when Adam and I go out to dinner without them, or, as on this occasion, when I’ve just baked baguettes in order to use up some starter.
“That’s it!” I said, and they all stopped chewing for a second. “Lena asked me what my favorite possession is and it’s my starter!” My starter is older than they are, and still works beautifully. It makes silky, bouncy dough and then flavorful bread out of nothing—flour, salt, and water. It’s goop in a plastic container in my fridge; it’s magic.
“That’s the thing you would save if the house was on fire?” asked Noah, skeptical.
“No,” I said, “because I would forget. But that’s the thing that I would later regret not saving.” I made a mental note to ask Maud if she still had some, in case my house burned down. That’s the other great thing about starter: you can give it away and still have it. Magic.
“Are you going to put it in your will?” asked Jesse.
“Well, by then I hope you’ll all have some, and be using it. You can compete to see who can keep it going the longest.”
“By then,” I went on, as I sometimes do, “you’ll all know how to make these,” and I picked up one of the knobby, golden brown baguettes still lined up on the cooling rack. I tend to leave my baked goods out for a while to make me feel productive during a day when the only thing I’ve written is a to-do list. “You’ll all know how to make them before you leave the house,” I declared, and then realized Noah was in ninth grade already and would be in college essentially by tomorrow afternoon.
That’s when I decided that 2015 would be the year of the baguette. By 2016, I vowed, all of my kids would be able to make them.
I am not as good a mom as I would like. Better habits, annually resolved—to read to my daughter every night, to hug my teenager every day—annually dissolve, corroded by inertia, distraction, laziness.
Finishing the Narnia series seems farfetched. We’ll be lucky to get through The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. But this transfer of skill . . . I think I can do. The kids are motivated and the task is fairly simple.
There are six stages, only two of which require any sort of skill. You feed the starter, make a biga (or levain or sponge—all words for a kind of pre-dough), make the dough, form the loaves, stretch the loaves into their pans, and bake the loaves.
This weekend I taught them to feed the starter, and then called them in to watch or try each subsequent step, although Lena missed a few (sleepover) and they all missed the baking part (football game). They did show up for the eating, though.
It’s a start.