I’m as close to being a drug dealer as I’ve ever been. At approximately 8:03 p.m. EST, headlights flooded the driveway, and I handed the goods over. Down the steps, barefoot across the sidewalk, they were passed through an automatically lowered passenger window. Few words, no more than thirty seconds, and the headlights turned and vanished back into the dark.
Sourdough starter. Six-ounce glass Ball jar. Five-year-old, shoeless Evelyn. In the rain.
The young woman who came for it was both a sob story and a redemption arc. With the starter I’d given her months ago, she built a mini empire of cinnamon rolls and sourdough loaves. Then a baby came along and she killed hers. Understandable. But still—no excuse! She had to come back to the source. The forever waterfall of starter.
In a parallel transaction, I’d been contacted by a woman in our co-op whose sourdough—named Dough Biden—had also died. She, too, was in the market for a new batch. Because of work, I won’t be at the playground meet-up, but Dave and Evelyn can arrage the handoff for me.
I’ve yet to name my Fountain of Youth, my everlasting Gobstopper, my Bend It Like Beckham sourdough starter. Instead of a name, maybe I’ll give it a tagline, like for a senior prom dance:
“Let’s Get It Startered in Here.”
Or, “Gentlemen, Starter Your Engines.”
Or maybe I’ll keep it nameless, like the Godfather—seated in my country kitchen, poised and ready to “help out my friends.”
Holy cow. I’ve been getting feedback on my Reedsy contest entry. One comment felt incredible to read:
“Wow! The writing is visceral, claustrophobic, and disturbingly immersive. The imagery is sharp enough to make you feel every heartbeat, every breath, every flicker of terror. It’s like being trapped in someone else’s panic attack. Amazing job! I seriously enjoyed this.”
Still, I feel tremendously insecure calling myself a writer. Writer feels too prolific a word—how dare I say I’m one of them? The perfectionist in me measures standards from the top of a fifteen-foot ladder, on tiptoe, pulling damp leaves out of the gutter. I don’t like her. She’s no fun.
And who cares if I’m just some writer—some mediocre writer? What does it matter? The whole point of writing every day was to bypass that bitch.
And I am.
Kapowie.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 