Exploding baby bitch

I wake up this morning, walk that odd, jerky, my legs aren’t awake and my eyes aren't open walk to the kitchen only to find odd, leaf-thin fragments of pale, pale brown ... erm ... shale, for lack of a better word, scattered throughout. It is spewed across the kitchen counter. It is dangling, fragile and crumbling, from the kitchen cupboard. And it is draped in thin, almost crisp, layers on my blender.

The blender I use every morning. The blender I am now hesitant to use until I figure out what this alien substance is.

I look at it. I break off a piece. I smell it. I ponder. And then my husband walks in.

“I heard a loud pop last night.”

“When?”

“When you were sleeping.”

“I didn’t hear it.”

“I know. You were sleeping.”

Did he check out the pop? No. Of course not. So, was that pop related to this stuff? Ponder, ponder. Then I noticed something. The lid of the baby bitch was laying at least a foot away from the container.

Conclusion: Baby bitch had exploded. And spewed bitch poop across my kitchen. Which dried into delicate shards.

Back story: The bitch is 30-year-old San Francisco sourdough starter that an adorning student (clearly, adoring) who owns a bakery generously (very generously, indeed - much thanks) gave me. Periodically, I feed the starter - who we started calling The Bitch in accidental homage to Anthony Bourdain (you’ll have to read his riveting Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly if you want to know why) - to keep it happy and alive. And, periodically, I also take some of the bitch - which, of course, we call baby bitch - to use to bake.

So far I made sourdough pancakes which were vile (although the husband manfully ate a goodly plateful - he does so make me swoon). And baguettes which I managed to overcook so long that I tried to convince everyone they were exceptionally long and fat breadsticks (the husband, yet again, ate an enormous slice in culinary support, before I could throw it away - still swooning). This time, I am going to make pizza with a sourdough crust. Hence the need for the baby bitch. So I fed it and went to bed.

And last night, building pressure on pressure, she blew.

Fast forward to me, cleaning baby bitch poop off counters and cupboards. That’s the bad news. But the good news is, there is enough left that tonight, I will make a pizza for dinner as well as a calzone for my husband (game man that he is, even though he did not bother to investigate the pop and how could he sleep not knowing?) to take to work and make his co-workers envious. I’ll let you know how it turns out.