Wendyl Nissen: Spore thing

I like talking to other journalists at gatherings.

Usually we rip apart the work of a journalist who isn't at the party and dissect a front page or cover of a publication none of us works for, then tease each other relentlessly about our latest piece of writing.

It's fun. It's what we do. But not this night. We were standing around talking about spores.

Specifically yeast spores which float around in the air and, with the right encouragement, may allow themselves to be collected in a thick soup of organic whole wheat flour and water, more commonly known as a sourdough starter.

"I bought one at the market, only cost $20," said one journalist.

"You can't buy one, you have to make it fresh, in your neighbourhood, harnessing your local spores, otherwise it's just not real," said another.

"I hear San Francisco has the best sourdough spores in the world," said another journo.

"Can we talk about something else?" I piped up, enjoying my first social occasion in months, after spending more time than is healthy writing a book about such things as making bread and yoghurt. I was up to my ears in yeast and bacteria.

"I'm actually thinking of starting mine tomorrow," said a voice I recognised as my husband's.

"You're what?" was all I could think to say, knowing his aversion to living bacteria such as my home-made yoghurt and moulding tomato seeds on the window sill.

"You do know that it bubbles and smells a lot," I continued before being interrupted by an enthusiastic "Let us know how you get on!" from the other journalists, impressed by my husband's latest venture.

I wandered off in search of someone who would give me a good conversation about tabloids and their role in the current post-digital media landscape.

Nothing was said on the way home. Or at bedtime. Or in the morning.

A week later I got out some organic whole wheat flour and some water and made a starter.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" thundered my husband from his office.

"Making a starter, a sourdough starter, you know the one you were telling everyone you were going to make."

"It's mine. I'm making it. I'm the sourdough starter guy!" he yelled.

"I just thought you might need some help. I am the one who lives like Nana. I am the one who knows how to grow things. I am to yeast what John Key is to our boys in Afghanistan!"

"It's mine," he said, reverting to the 3-year-old I have seen only once before, when I tried to drink the last of his Calvados.

"Fine. Sorry I tried to help. But if we waited for you to make sourdough we'd still be here at Christmas."

I stomped off to my office, but not before secreting my little starter in my yoghurt maker on the shelf.

He made his starter with much noise and the high level of inquiry men are known for when they get near a kitchen.

"Where's the organic flour kept? Which jar should I use? What's a muslin top look like? Where's a warm spot?"

I helped him through it and then we waited.

Each day he peered into the jar expectantly and fed it more flour and water. By day three it was bubbling away enthusiastically.

"I think it's good to go," I said helpfully. "Time to make bread."

"No, the recipe says it takes a week."

"But we live in Grey Lynn, with chickens outside the window. I'm sure our spores are legendary."

It died. Which is when I "discovered" my starter tucked away on the shelf.

"Oh, look, what is this?" I said innocently.

We both marvelled at the stinky, frothy bubbling mess of sourdough starter, a heaving settlement of microbes. I had used spring water harvested from the Kaimai Ranges to avoid chemicals. I had provided warmth. I had let it be.

"You really annoy me sometimes," he said, stomping back to his office. "But let me know when the bread's ready."

www.wendylsgreengoddess.co.nz