I did not make sourdough in 2020. I did many a thing — some more beneficial than others — but I did not bake bread.
I became an addict — to Twitter, NPR, death tolls, infection rates, hand sanitizer, Purple Air, election results, even booze (on occasion). I suffered from insomnia, depression, and cabin fever, but still I did not bake bread.
I started routines. I gave up said routines. I stayed up late. I woke up early. I took naps. I spent many a restless night worrying about what I would do the next day, what I would work on, what hobby I would attempt. But I did not make sourdough.
I lived my days like a hermit. I barricaded the family inside, barely opening the door for weeks on end. I told friendly delivery drivers, ‘That’s close enough’ and ‘You can just leave the box right there, thank you’. I sprayed gallons of disinfectant across every surface that traveled through the front door. I stayed inside, away from the pandemic, and when the wildfires came in September, enveloping the Bay Area is a shadowy haze of orange and yellow, I stayed inside some more. I tried (in the words of Wilco) “to stay busy/I [tried] to keep the house nice and neat/I [made] my bed, I [changed] the sheets”. I decluttered and organized and donated useless things, but I did not make sourdough.
I blessed technology. I bemoaned technology. I limited screentime, then — at my wits end — doled out screen time with reckless abandon. I listened to podcasts and called it ‘socializing’. I attended virtual concerts, Q&As, and lectures, bombarding myself with other voices, then somehow felt lonelier. I watched movies and TV shows. I watched tennis. I watched the world fall apart. I watched my Grandmother’s funeral over Zoom. I watched seemingly everyone else craft rustic loaves from starters, but I did not partake.
I grew a beard. I grew my hair. I grew basil and crackerjack marigolds and sweet peas and nasturtiums. I grew restless.
I wrote some words. I deleted more. I wrote long emails and letters, and then, when I got tired and lazy, just gifs.
I tried new recipes. I tried new exercises. I tried to write this without so many “I”s and failed. I was hard on myself (but not hard enough, apparently, you lazy piece of shit). But I did not make sourdough.
I walked. I walked so many miles I wore holes in the soles of my shoes. I bought new shoes and walked some more. I walked alone. I walked with my dog. I walked uphill so much I pulled my hip flexor; after that, I walked a little slower, a little less, but I walked. I ran sometimes, but never by choice. I walked my neighborhood enough I could be its cartographer. I walked in silence and while listening to podcasts and audiobooks and NPR. But I did not make sourdough.
I became a father for the second time, and as a result, I cried so many times I’ve lost count.
I became a teacher — and because my daughter wanted to learn, I became a student. I learned over 270 dog breeds, one hundred kinds of dinosaurs, every state flower and bird, and other trivia I’ll probably forget by the end of this sentence. I learned a few songs on the piano, a few more on guitar, and (much to the chagrin on my family) even more on the ukulele. I learned too much about a virus and the selfishness of others. I learned things I wish I would forget.
I made fake snow. I made s’mores in the oven. I made flash cards and posters and laminated bug books. I made indoor forts with dining room chairs, grasshoppers from celery sticks, and innumerable resolutions that shortly went by the wayside. I made the most of holidays. I made music, memories, masks, and Lord knows how many mistakes.
I had the best and worst year of my life.
But I did not, not even once (and very well may never), make sourdough.*
[*As fate would have it, on January 3, 2021, a neighbor gifted me some sourdough starter, so I have been (literally) eating these words ever since.]