August Fermentation

blubein’ and drinkin’

Portage Galcier, from the pass

I recently brought my bread back from a sorry state: it was stubbornly underproofed, dense and sad, sorely lacking the fungal joie de vivre necessary for an airy interior and crisp crust.  The sourdough starter knew before the rest of us that summer is waning.  It tried to tell me about the increasingly long and cool nights but the message took a while for me to decipher.  It’s sorted out now, and just in time to complement the panoply of cheese I’ll share on my birthday.

A late summer birthday allows for the perfect sort of reflection—there’s still a good deal of summer and sun and beach left, but you can sense the approach and change of autumn.  Without yet feeling pressed for time, we’re starting to prioritize unhiked trails and unswum lakes.  It’s still light out until late, but fleeting, as yellow leaves replace yellow beams.

A few nights ago, a group of us headed to a local spot flush with blueberries.  We strolled and picked and chatted, slowly accumulating little sacks of sugary jewels.  Smooshed up a bit with gin and mint and simple syrup, they made a sublime cocktail.  We had everything we needed.  Today, as we paddled a surprise free canoe on a backcountry lake, a friend said, “Life is good in Alaska.”

For some time I have felt home-less, that I neither want to nor could possibly make another home.  (A disheartening result of parting ways with the city, dwelling, and man you spent your entire adult life with.)  The only place that’s felt ok is an industrial, temporary, capricious, government-contractor-sciencey-masquerade in Antarctica, where by definition no one can actually live.  I’m not about to buy real estate in Alaska, but I’d consider a long-term rental.