Guilt in a Jar

Of course I love my sourdough starter, anyting else would be absurd. I have bred it from scratch, fed and nurtured it for months on end! I have seen it grow and shrink, I have been there with it through stages of happily bubbling away in healthy well-balanced yeast-bacteria heaven, to moments of neglect, barely surviving, suffocating under growing fluff of not so healthy micro-organisms intending to take over the cosy jar. And it has brought my family superior loaves of bread every week. Of course I love it. It’s like a member of our family. I am one of those weird people who has joined the sourdough cult and who keeps this bacteria pet in a rather disguisting glass jar in the fridge; who asks their friends to leaven-sit when going off on holiday, with strict instructions left on the counter; who has almost gone as far as to naming it (but who would never go as far as to call it “Mother”); and who has become so strangely attached to it, that it manages to connect to the guilt part of my conscience to wake me up at night, reminding me that I forgot to feed it – again!