The most recent loaf of sourdough, fresh out of the oven eight days ago, lived a fulfilling life. As planned, I froze half of it after slicing, and enjoyed it almost every day since then.
It came out with the most perfect crumb so far, and sliced beautifully once cooled.
The center slices were so big that I ate each singly, toasted, with cream cheese, smoked salmon, and avocado mayo, for a couple of days for lunch.
On the fourth day the slices were small enough to justify a two-piece sandwich, and I added red onion to the cream cheese, with Havarti on top.
The fifth day I pickled the last of the tiny garden onions in seasoned rice vinegar, and mixed up some tuna fish, then grilled that with some sharp white cheddar.
The next lunch, I ate another open-face with avocado and leftover tuna salad, grilled with cheddar again.
In a crazy way, much as I enjoyed each of those sandwiches, I was eagerly anticipating the last of the loaf, knowing all along exactly what I’d do with the tail end: French toast with yogurt, blueberries, and pure Vermont maple syrup. That was today’s lunch. I’m grateful for the life of a loaf that was a joy to make and bake, and also to eat for a week, nourishing me body and soul. Each meal it made was simple and delicious, and all the more fulfilling for the attention I gave it through every step and bite. I’m grateful for the fish, the plants, and every other being who contributed to the short, happy life of this loaf.
